LIBRARY 

IINIVKSITY  or 
^CALIPOIMU^ 

UNDERGRAD. 
Li6RAKf 


AUGUST  STRINDBERG 
PLAYS 

Comrades    .      .      .    Facing  Death 
Pariah    ....    Easter 


A 


Translated  by 

EDITH  and  WARNER  OLAND 


JOHN  W.   LUCE  &   COMPANY 
BOSTON,  1912 


•^k^"^"' 


Copyright,  1912, 

By  L.  E.  Bassett 

Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


UNDERGRAD. 
LIBRARY 

^X>KJ^  Vfc-w^   ty^     «;tt  rvw     Xw*A«.    A*, 


CONTENTS 
COMRADES 

A  Comedy  in  IV  Acts. 

FACING  DEATH 

A  Play  in  I  Act. 

PARIAH 

A  Play  in  I  Act. 

EASTER 

A  Play  in  III  Acts. 


FOREWORD 

August  Strindberg  died  at  Stockholm  on 
May  14,  1912,  just  ten  days  after  the  first  of 
his  plays  given  in  English  in  the  United  States 
had  completed  a  month's  engagement.  This 
play  was  "  The  Father,"  which,  on  April  9, 
1912,  was  produced  at  the  Berkeley  Theatre  in 
New  York,  the  same  little  theatre  that  witnessed 
in  1894  the  first  performance  in  this  country  of 
Ibsen's  "  Ghosts." 

It  happened  that  August  Lindberg,  the  emi- 
nent Swedish  actor  and  friend  of  Strindberg 
(who,  by  the  way,  was  the  first  producer  of 
"  Ghosts  "  in  any  language),  was  visiting  this 
country  and  came  to  see  a  performance  of 
"  The  Father."  His  enthusiasm  over  the  inter- 
pretation given  Strindberg,  in  the  English  ren- 
dering of  the  play  as  well  as  in  the  acting,  led 
him  to  cable  a  congratulatory  message  to  Strind- 
berg; and  upon  departing  for  Stockholm,  he 
asked  for  some  of  the  many  letters  of  appre- 
ciation from  significant  sources  which. the  pro- 
duction of  "The  Father"  had  called  forth. 
These  he  wished  to  give  to  Strindberg  as  further 
assurance  "  that  he  has,"  to  use  Herr  Lind- 
berg's  words,  "  the  right  representatives  in  this 
country."  It  is  gratifying  to  those  who  esteem 
it   a   rare   privilege   to   be   the   introducers   of 


vi  STRINDBERG 

Strindberg's  powerful  dramatic  art  to  the 
American  stage  to  know  that  he  finally  found 
his  genius  recognized  on  this  side  of  the  ocean. 

"  Comrades,"  the  first  play  in  the  present  vol- 
ume, belongs  to  the  same  momentous  creative 
period  as  "  The  Father  "  and  "  Countess  Julie," 
although  there  is  little  anecdotic  history  attach- 
ing to  this  vigorous  comedy.  It  was  written  in 
Denmark,  where  Strindberg,  after  finishing 
"The  Father"  in  Switzerland  in  1887,  went 
with  his  family  to  live  for  two  years,  and  was 
pubhshed  March  21,  1888. 

Although  the  scene  of  the  comedy  is  laid  in 
Paris,  all  the  characters  are  Swedish,  which  may 
be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  the  feminist 
movement,  of  which  "  Comrades  "  is  a  delicious, 
stinging  satire,  had  been  more  agitated  at  that 
time  in  Scandinavia  than  elsewhere.  That  Paris 
was  chosen  as  a  background  for  this  group  of 
young  artists  and  writers  was  probably  remi- 
niscent of  the  time,  the  early  eighties,  when 
Strindberg  with  his  wife  and  children  left  Swe- 
den and,  after  spending  some  time  with  a  colony 
of  artists  not  far  from  Fontainebleau,  came  to 
Paris,  where  there  were  many  friends  of  other 
days,  and  established  themselves  in  that  "  sad, 
silent  Passy,"  as  Strindberg's  own  chronicle  of 
those  times  reads.  There  he  took  his  walks  in 
the  deserted  arcades  of  the  empty  Trocadero 
Palace,  back  of  which  he  lived;  went  to  the 
Theatre  Fran9ais,  where  he  saw  the  great  suc- 
cess of  the  day,  and  was  startled  that  "  an  un- 


STRINDBERG  vii 

dramatic  bagatelle  with  threadbare  scenery, 
stale  intrigues  and  superannuated  theatrical 
tricks,  could  be  playing  on  the  foremost  stage 
of  the  world ;  "  saw  at  the  Palais  de  I'Industrie 
the  triennial  exhibition  of  art  works,  "  the 
creme  de  la  creme  of  three  salons,  and  found 
not  one  work  of  consequence."  After  some  time 
he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  "  the  big  city  is 
not  the  heart  that  drives  the  pulses,"  but  that 
it  is  "  the  boil  that  corrupts  and  poisons,"  and 
so  betook  himself  and  his  family  to  Switzerland, 
where  they  lived  in  the  vicinity  of  Lake  Leman, 
which  environment  was  made  use  of  years  later 
in  the  moving  one-act  play,  "  Facing  Death," 
presented  herewith. 

"  Pariah,"  the  other  one-act  play  appearing 
in  this  volume,  is  the  generally  recognized  mas- 
terpiece of  all  the  short  one-act  plays.  The 
dialogue  is  so  concentrated  that  it  seems  as  if 
not  one  line  could  be  cut  without  the  whole 
structure  falling  to  pieces,  and  in  these  terse 
speeches  a  genius  is  revealed  that,  with  some- 
thing of  the  divine  touch,  sounds  the  depths  of 
the  human  heart  and  reveals  its  inmost  thoughts. 
"  Pariah  "  was  published  in  1890  and  "  Facing 
Death  "  in  1893. 

The  period  of  Strindberg's  sojourn  In  Swit- 
zerland, 1884-87,  was  most  important  In  the  evo- 
lution of  the  character  and  work  of  the  man 
who,  throughout  his  career,  was  to  engage  him- 
self so  penetratingly  and  passionately  In  the 
psychology  of  woman,  and  love,  and  the  prob- 


viii  STRINDBERG 

lems  of  marriage,  as  to  acquire  the  reputation, 
undeserved  though  it  was,  of  woman-hater. 
That  this  observation  and  analysis  of  woman 
was  not  induced  by  natural  antipathy  to  the  sex, 
nor  by  unhappiness  in  his  own  married  experi- 
ence, is  made  clear  by  the  facts  of  his  life  up 
to  the  time  when  such  investigation  was  under- 
taken. What,  then,  did  sway  him  to  such  a 
choice  of  theme?  Examination  of  the  data  of 
this  period  from  Strindberg's  own  annals  re- 
veals the  following  influences:  Ibsen  from  his 
Norwegian  throne  had  hailed  woman  and  the 
laborer  as  the  two  rising  ranks  of  nobility,  and 
Strindberg  asked  himself  if  this  was  ironic,  as 
usual,  or  prophetic.  Feminine  individualism  was 
the  cult  of  the  hour.  The  younger  generation 
had,  through  the  doctrines  of  evolution,  become 
atheistic.  Strindberg  tells  of  asking  a  young 
writer  how  he  could  get  along  without  God. 
"  We  have  woman  instead,"  was  the  reply. 
This  was  the  last  stage  of  Madonna  worship ! 
And  how  had  it  happened  that  the  new  genera- 
tion had  replaced  God  with  woman  ?  "  God  was 
the  remotest  source ;  when  he  failed  they  grasped 
at  the  next,  the  mother.  But  then  they  should 
at  least  choose  the  real  mother,  the  real  woman, 
before  whom,  no  matter  how  strong  his  spirit, 
man  will  always  bow  when  she  appears  with  her 
life-giving  attributes.  But  the  younger  genera- 
tion had  pronounced  contempt  for  the  mother, 
and  in  her  place  had  set  up  the  loathsome,  ster- 
ile,  degenerate   amazon  —  the   blue-stocking !  " 


STRINDBERG  ix 

Earnestly  pondering  these  matters,  Strind- 
berg  at  length  decided  to  write  a  book  about 
woman,  a  subject,  he  declares,  which  up  to  this 
time  he  had  not  wanted  to  think  about,  as  he 
himself  "  lived  in  a  happy  erotic  state,  ennobled 
and  beautified  by  the  rejuvenating  and  expia- 
tory arrival  of  children."  But  nevertheless  he 
decided  to  write  such  a  book,  and  so  with  sym- 
pathy and  much  old-fashioned  veneration  for 
motherhood  the  task  was  undertaken. 

Regarding  the  mother  as  down-trodden,  he 
wanted  to  think  out  a  means  for  her  deliverance. 
To  obtain  a  clear  vision  he  chose  as  a  method 
the  delineation  of  as  large  a  number  as  possible 
of  marriage  cases  that  he  had  seen  —  and  he 
had  seen  many,  as  most  of  his  contemporary 
friends  were  married.  Of  these  he  chose  twelve, 
the  most  characteristic,  and  then  he  went  to 
work.  When  he  had  written  about  half  that 
number,  he  stopped  and  reviewed  the  collection. 
The  result  was  entirely  different  from  what  he 
had  expected. 

Then  chance  came  to  his  aid,  for  in  the  pen- 
sion where  he  was  living,  thirty  women  were 
stopping.  He  saw  them  at  all  meals,  between 
meals,  and  all  about,  idle,  gossiping,  preten- 
tious, longing  for  pleasure.  "  There  were 
learned  ladies  who  left  the  Saturday  Review 
behind  them  on  the  chairs;  there  were  literary 
ladies,  young  ladies,  beautiful  ladies."  When 
he  saw  their  care-free,  idle  life,  with  concern  he 
asked  himself:    "Whom  do  these  parasites  and 


X  STRINDBERG 

their  children  live  on  ?  "  Then  he  discovered 
the  bread-winners.  "  The  husband  sat  in  his 
dark  office  far  away  in  London ;  the  husband 
was  far  away  with  a  detachment  in  Tonkin; 
the  husband  was  at  work  in  his  bureau  in  Paris ; 
the  husband  had  gone  on  a  business  trip  to 
Australia."  And  the  three  men  who  were  there 
gave  him  occasion  to  reflect  about  the  so-called 
female  slave.  "  There  was  a  husband  who  had 
a  fiercely  hot  attic  room,  while  the  wife  and 
daughter  had  a  room  with  a  balcony  on  the 
first  floor.  An  elderly  man  passed  by,  who, 
although  himself  a  brisk  walker,  was  now  lead- 
ing his  sickly  wife  step  by  step,  his  hand  sup- 
porting her  back  when  making  an  ascent;  he 
carried  her  shawls,  chair,  and  other  little  neces- 
sities, reverently,  lovingly,  as  if  he  had  become 
her  son  when  she  had  ceased  to  be  his  wife.  And 
there  sat  King  Lear  with  his  daughter,  —  it  was 
terrible  to  see.  He  was  over  sixty,  had  had 
eight  children,  six  of  whom  were  daughters,  and 
who,  in  his  days  of  affluence,  he  had  allowed  to 
manage  his  house  and,  no  doubt,  the  economy 
thereof.  Now  he  was  poor,  had  nothing,  and 
they  had  all  deserted  him  except  one  daughter 
who  had  inherited  a  small  income  from  an  aunt. 
And  the  former  giant,  who  had  been  able  to 
work  for  a  household  of  twelve,  crushed  by  the 
disgrace  of  bankruptcy,  was  forced  to-  feel  the 
humiliation  of  accepting  support  from  his 
daughter,  who  went  about  with  her  twenty- 
nine  women  friends,  receiving  their  comfort  and 


STRINDBERG  xi 

condolence,  weeping  over  her  fate,  and  some- 
times actually  wishing  the  life  out  of  her 
father." 

The  immediate  result  of  all  this  observation 
and  consequent  analysis  was  the  collection  of 
short  stories  in  two  volumes  called  "  Mar- 
riages," the  first  of  which,  published  in  1884, 
gave  rise  to  Strindberg's  reputation  of  being  a 
pessimist,  and  the  second,  two  years  later,  to 
that  of  woman-hater,  which  became  confirmed 
by  the  portrayals  of  women  in  his  realistic 
dramas  that  soon  followed,  notably  that  of 
Laura  in  "The  Father."  That  part  of  the 
woman-hater  legend  which  one  encounters  most 
often  is  that  Strindberg  was  revealing  his  own 
marital  miseries  in  the  sex  conflicts  of  these 
dramas,  particularly  in  "  The  Father,"  notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  this  play  was  written  five 
years  before  his  first  marriage  was  dissolved, 
and  little  more  than  two  years  after  his  avowed 
hesitancy  to  undertake  the  dissection  of  woman- 
kind on  account  of  the  "  happy  erotic  state  " 
in  which  he  was  living. 

And  that  his  analytical  labors  and  personal 
experiences,  far  from  bringing  about  an  ac- 
quired aversion  for  woman,  never  even  let  him 
be  warned,  is  attested  by  the  fact  of  his  having 
founded  three  families.  One  is  forced  to  suspect 
that  instead  of  being  a  woman-hater,  he  was 
rather  a  disguised  and  indefatigable  lover  of 
woman,  and  that  his  wars  on  woman  and  his 
fruitless  endeavors  to  get  into  harmony  with  the 


\ 


xii  STRINDBERG 


other  half  of  the  race  were,  fundamentally,  a 
warrmg  within  himself  of  his  own  many-sided, 
rich  nature.  He  said  of  himself  that  he  had 
been  sentenced  by  his  nature  to  be  the  fault- 
finder, to  see  the  other  side  of  things.  He  hated 
the  Don  Juans  among  men  as  intensely  as  he 
did  the  lazy  parasites  among  women  —  the  rich 
and  spoiled  ones  who  declaimed  loudest  about 
woman's  holy  duties  as  wife  and  mother,  but 
whose  time  was  given  up  to  being  hysterical 
and  thinking  out  foolish  acts,  —  these  women 
enraged  him. 

However,  the  psychology  of  woman  repre- 
sents but  one  phase  of  Strindberg.  In  a  book 
called  "  The  Author,"  styled  by  him  "  a  self- 
evolutionary  history,"  which  was  written  during 
the  germinating  period  of  the  realistic  dramas, 
but  was  not  given  out  for  publication  until 
1909,  there  is  a  foreword  which  contains  the 
following  significant  avowal  from  the  Strind- 
berg of  the  last  years :  "  The  author  had  not 
arrived  in  1886;  perhaps  only  came  into  being 
then.  The  book  presented  herewith  is  conse- 
quently only  of  secondary  interest  as  consti- 
tuting a  fragment;  and  the  reader  should  bear 
in  mind  that  it  was  written  over  twenty  years 
ago.  The  personality  of  the  author  is  conse- 
quently as  unfamiliar  to  me  as  to  the  reader 
—  and  as  unsympathetic.  As  he  no  longer  ex- 
ists, I  can  no  longer  assume  any  responsibility 
for  him,  and  as  I  took  part  in  his  execution 
(1898)  I  believe  I  have  the  riglit  to  regard  the 


STRINDBERG  xiii 

past  as  expiated  and  stricken  out  of  the  Big 
Book."  The  "  execution  "  in  1898  referred  to 
was  the  spiritual  crisis  through  which  Strind- 
berg  passed  when  he  emerged  from  the  abysmal 
pessimism  of  "  The  Inferno ;  "  then  began  the 
gradual  return  to  spiritual  faith  which,  in  the 
end,  caused  him  to  declare  himself  a  Sweden- 
borgian. 

The  play,  "  Easter,"  included  in  the  present 
collection,  belongs  to  this  period ;  it  is  a.&trange 
jningUng.  of  symbolism  and  realism,  bearing  the 
spiritual  message  of  the  resurrection.  It  was 
the  most  popular  play  produced  at  the  Intimate 
Theatre  in  Stockholm,  having  been  given  there 
over  two  hundred  times ;  and  in  Germany,  also, 
it  has  been  one  of  the  plays  most  appreciated. 
That  "  Easter "  is  representative  of  the  last 
phase,  spiritually,  of  the  great  man  is  evidenced 
by  the  closing  incident  of  his  life.  His  favorite 
daughter,  Kirtlin,  was  in  the  room  as  death 
approached.  Strindberg  called  to  her,  and  asked 
for  the  Bible;  receiving  the  book,  he  opened  it, 
and  placing  it  across  his  breast,  said,  "  This  is 
the  best  book  of  all,"  and  then,  with  his  last 
breath,  "  Now  everything  personal  is  obliter- 
ated." E.  O.  and  W.  O. 


COMRADES 
Comedy  in  Four  Acts 


CHARACTERS 

AXEL,  an  artist 
BERTHA,  his  wife,  artist 
ABEL,  her  friend 
WILLMER,  litterateur 
OSTERMARK,  a  doctor 
MRS.  HALL,  his  divorced  wife 
THE  MISSES  LIALL,  her  daughters  by  a  sec- 
ond marriage 
CARL  STARCK,  heutenant 
MRS.  STARCK,  his  wife 
MAID 


COMRADES 

Scene  for  the  whole  play.  —  An  artisfs  studio 
in  Paris;  it  is  on  the  ground  -floor,  has  glass 
windows  looking  out  on  an  orchard.  At  hack 
of  scene  a  large  window  and  door  to  hall. 
On  the  walls  hang  studies,  canvases,  weapons, 
costumes  and  plaster  casts.  To  right  there  is 
a  door  leading  to  AxeVs  room;  to  left  a  door 
leading  to  Bertha's  room.  There  is  a  model 
stand  left  center.  To  right  an  easel  and 
painting  materials.  A  large  sofa,  a  large 
stove  through  the  doors  of  which  one  sees  a 
hot  coal  fire.  There  is  a  hanging-lamp  from 
ceiling.  At  rise  of  curtain  Axel  and  Doctor 
Ostermarh  are  discovered. 

AXEL   [Sitting,   painting^.   And   you,   too,   are 

in  Paris ! 
DR.  OSTERMARK.  Everything  gathers  here  as  the 

center  of  the  world ;    and  so  you  are  married 

—  and  happy? 
AXEL.  Oh,  yes,  so,  so.     Yes,  I'm  quite  happy. 

That's  understood. 
DR.  OSTERMARK.  What's  uuderstood .'' 
AXEL.  Look  here,  you're  a  widower.     How  was 

it  with  your  marriage? 
DR.  OSTERMARK.  Oh,  Very  nice  —  for  her. 
1 


2  ST RIND BERG 

AXEL.  And  for  you? 

DR.  osTERMARK.  So,  SO !  But  jou  See  onc  must 
compromise,  and  we  compromised  to  the  end. 

AXEL.  What  do  you  mean  by  compromise  .f^ 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  I  mean  —  that  I  gave  in! 

AXEL.  You? 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  Yes,  you  wouldu't  think  that 
of  a  man  like  me,  would  you? 

AXEL.  No,  I  would  never  have  thought  that. 
Look  here,  don't  you  believe  in  woman,  eh? 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  No,  sir !  I  do  uot.  But  I  love 
her. 

AXEL.  In  your  way  —  yes ! 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  In  my  way  —  yes.  How  about 
your  way? 

AXEL.  We  have  arranged  a  sort  of  comrade- 
ship, you  see,  and  friendship  is  higher  and 
more  enduring  than  love. 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  H'm  —  SO  Bertha  paints  too. 
How?    Well? 

AXEL.  Fairly  well. 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  We  Were  good  friends  in  the 
old  days,  she  and  I,  —  that  is,  we  always 
quarreled  a  little.  —  Some  visitors.  Hush ! 
It  is  Carl  and  his  wife ! 

AXEL  lRising~\.  And  Bertha  isn't  at  home! 
Sacristi!  \_Enter  Lieutenant  Carl  Starch 
and  his  wife.}  Welcome!  Well, .  well,  we 
certainly  meet  here  from  all  corners  of  the 
world!  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Starck? 
You're  looking  well  after  your  journey. 

MRS.  STARCK.  Thanks,  dear  Axel,  we  have  cer- 


COMRADES  3 

tainly  had  a  delightful  trip.     But  where  is 
Bertha? 

CARL.  Yes,  where  is  the  young  wife.^^ 

AXEL.  She's  out  at  the  studio,  but  she'll  be  home 
at  any  moment  now.  But  won't  you  sit 
down  ? 

\_The  doctor  greets  the  visit ors.~\ 

CARL.  Hardly.  We  were  passing  by  and 
thought  we  would  just  look  in  to  see  how 
you  are.  But  we  shall  be  on  hand,  of  course, 
for  your  invitation  for  Saturday,  the  first  of 
May. 

AXEL.  That's  good.    You  got  the  card  then.? 

MRS.  STARCK.  Yes,  we  received  it  while  we  were 
in  Hamburg.  Well,  what  is  Bertha  doing 
nowadays  ? 

AXEL.  Oh,  she  paints,  as  I  do.  In  fact,  we're 
expecting  her  model,  and  as  he  may  come  at 
any  moment,  perhaps  I  can't  ask  you  to  sit 
down  after  all,  if  I'm  going  to  be  honest. 

CARL.  Do  you  think  we  would  blush,  then.? 

MRS.  STARCK.  He  isu't  nude,  is  he? 

AXEL.  Of  course. 

CARL.  A  man  ?  The  devil !  —  No,  I  couldn't 
allow  my  wife  to  be  mixed  up  with  anything 
of  that  sort.     Alone  with  a  naked  man ! 

AXEL.  I  see  you  still  have  prejudices,  Carl. 

CARL.  Yes,  you  know  — 

MRS.  STARCK.  Fie! 

DR.  osTERMARK.  Yes,  that's  what  I  say,  too. 

AXEL.  I  can't  deny  that  it  is  not  altogether  to 


4  STRINDBERG 

my  taste,  but  as  long  as  I  must  have  a  woman 

model  — 
MRS.  STARCK.   That's  another  matter. 
AXEL.  Another? 

MRS.   STARCK.  Yes,   it   is   another  matter  —  al- 
though it  resembles  the  other,  it  is  not  the 

same.  [There  is  a  knock. ~\ 

AXEL.  There  he  is ! 
MRS.  STARCK.  We'll  go,  then.    Good-bye  and  au 

revoir.     Give  my  love  to  Bertha. 
AXEL.  Good-bye,    then,    as    you're    so    scared. 

And  au  revoir. 
CARL  and  DR.  osTERMARK.  Good-bye,  Axel. 
CARL   \_To  Axel^,     You  stay  in  here,  at  least, 

while  — 
AXEL.  No,  why  should  I.'' 
CARL   [Goes  shaking  his  head~\.    Ugh! 

[Axel  alone  starts  to  paint.     There  is  a 
knock. ~\ 
AXEL.  Come  in.     [The  model  enters.^     So,  you 

are   back   again.      Madame   hasn't    returned 

yet. 
THE  MODEL.   But  it's  almost  twelve,  and  I  must 

keep  another  appointment. 
AXEL.  Is  that  so.f^     It's  too  bad,  but  —  h'm  — 

something    must    have    detained    her    at    the 

studio.     How  much  do  I  owe  you.^^ 
THE  MODEL.  Five  fraucs,  as  usual. 
AXEL   [Paying  him~\.      There.     Perhaps  you'd 

better  wait  awhile,  nevertheless. 
THE  MODEL.  Ycs,  if  I'm  needed. 


COMRADES  5 

AXEL.  Yes,  be  kind  enough  to  wait  a  few  min- 
utes. 

[^The  model  retires  behind  a  screen.  Axel 
alone,  draws  and  whistles.  Bertha  comes 
in  after  a  moment.^ 

AXEL.  Hello,  my  dear!     So  you're  back  at  last.? 

BERTHA.  At  last.? 

AXEL.  Yes,  your  model  is  waiting. 

BERTHA  [Startled^.  No!  No!  Has  he  been 
here  again? 

AXEL.   You  had  engaged  him  for  eleven  o'clock. 

BERTHA.  I .?     No !    Did  he  say  that  ? 

AXEL.  Yes.  But  I  heard  you  when  you  made 
the  engagement  yesterday. 

BERTHA.  Perhaps  it's  so,  then,  but  anyway  the 
professor  wouldn't  let  us  leave  and  you  know 
how  nervous  one  gets  in  the  last  hours. 
You're  not  angry  with  me.  Axel.? 

AXEL.  Angry?  No.  But  this  is  the  second 
time,  and  he  gets  his  five  francs  for  nothing, 
nevertheless. 

BERTHA.  Can  I  help  it  if  the  professor  keeps 
us?     Why  must  you  always  pick  on  me? 

AXEL.  Do  I  pick  on  you? 

BERTHA.  What's  that?     Didn't  you  — 

AXEL.  Yes,  yes,  yes !  I  picked  on  you  —  for- 
give me  —  forgive  me  —  for  thinking  that 
it  was  your  fault. 

BERTHA.  Well,  it's  all  right  then.  But  what 
did  you  pay  him  with? 

AXEL.  To  be  sure.  Gaga  paid  back  the  twenty 
francs  he  owed  me. 


6  STRINDBERG 

BERTHA  [Takes  out  account-bookl.  So,  he 
paid  you  back?  Come  on,  then,  and  I'll  put 
it  down,  for  the  sake  of  order.  It's  your 
money,  so  of  course  you  can  dispose  of  it  as 
you  please,  but  as  you  wish  me  to  take  care 
of  the  accounts —  [Writes]  fifteen  francs  in, 
five  francs  out,  model.     There. 

AXEL.   No.     Look  here.     It's  twenty  francs  in. 

BERTHA.  Yes,  but  there  are  only  fifteen  here. 

AXEL.  Yes,  but  you  should  put  down  twenty. 

BERTHA.  Why  do  you  argue  .^^ 

AXEL.  Did  I  —  Well,  the  man's  waiting  — 

BERTHA.  Oh,  yes.  Be  good  and  get  things 
ready  for  me. 

AXEL.  [Puts  model  stand  in  place.  Calls  to 
model] .     Are  you  undressed  yet  ? 

THE  MODEL  [Fvom  back  of  screen].  Soon, 
monsieur. 

BERTHA  [Closes  door^  puts  wood  in  stove]i 
There,  now  you  must  go  out. 

AXEL   [Hesitating].     Bertha! 

BERTHA.  Yes.? 

AXEL.  Is  it  absolutely  necessary  —  with  a  nude 
model  ? 

BERTHA.  Absolutely! 

AXEL.  H'm  —  indeed ! 

BERTHA.  We  have  certainly  argued  that  matter 
out. 

AXEL.  Quite  true.  But  it's  loathsome  neverthe- 
less—  [Goes  out  right.] 

BERTHA  [Takes  up  brushes  and  palette.  Calls 
to  model].     Are  you  ready .'^ 


COMRADES  7 

THE  MODEi..  All  ready. 

BERTHA.  Come  on,  then.      \^Pause.^     Come  on. 

[There  is  a  knock.^     Who  is  it.?     I  have  a 

model. 
wiLLMER   [Outsidel,       Willmer.       With     news 

from  the  salon. 
BERTHA.  From  the  salon !     [To  mo  del. ^     Dress 

yourself !    We'll  have  to  postpone  the  sitting. 

—  Axel !    Willmer  is  here  with  news  from  the 

salon. 

[Axel  comes  in,  also  Willmer;    the  model 
goes  out  unnoticed  during  the  following 
scene. ^ 
WILLMER.   Hello,  dear  friends !     Tomorrow  the 

jury  will  begin  its  work.     Oh,  Bertha,  here 

are  your  pastels. 

[Takes  package  from  pocket. 1 
BERTHA.   Thanks,  my   good  Gaga;    how  much 

did  they   cost.''      They   must   have   been   ex- 
pensive. 
WILLMER.  Oh,  not  very. 
BERTHA.  So  they  are  to  start  tomorrow.     So 

soon.?     Do  you  hear.  Axel.? 
AXEL.  Yes,  my  friend. 
BERTHA.  Now,   will   you   be   very   good,   very, 

very  good? 
AXEL.   I  always  want  to  be   good  to  you,  my 

friend. 
BERTHA.  You    do  ?      Now,    listen.      You    know 

Roubey,  don't  you? 
AXEL.  Yes,  I  met  him  in  Vienna  and  we  became 

good  friends,  as  it's  called. 


8  STRINDBERG 

BERTHA.  You  know  that  he  is  on  the  jury? 

AXEL.  And  then  what.? 

BERTHA.  Well  —  now  you'll  be  angry,  I  know 
you  will. 

AXEL.  You  know  it.^^    Don't  prove  it,  then. 

BERTHA  [Coaxing].  You  wouldn't  make  a 
sacrifice  for  your  wife,  would  you? 

AXEL.  Go  begging?  No,  I  don't  want  to  do 
that. 

BERTHA.  Not  for  me?  You'll  get  in  anyway, 
but  for  your  wife  ! 

AXEL.  Don't  ask  me. 

BERTHA.  I  should  really  never  ask  you  for  any- 
thing ! 

AXEL.  Yes,  for  things  that  I  can  do  without 
sacrificing  — 

BERTHA.  Your  mau's  pride! 

AXEL.  Let  it  go  at  that. 

BERTHA.  But  I  would  sacHfice  my  woman's 
pride  if  I  could  help  you. 

AXEL.  You  women  have  no  pride. 

BERTHA.  Axel! 

AXEL.  Well,  well,  pardon,  pardon! 

BERTHA.  You  must  be  jealous.  I  don't  believe 
you  would  really  like  it  if  I  were  accepted  at 
the  salon. 

AXEL.  Nothing  would  make  me  happier.  Be- 
lieve me,  Bertha. 

BERTHA.  Would  you  be  happy,  too,  if  I  were 
accepted  and  you  were  refused? 

AXEL.  I  must  feel  and  see.  [Puts  his  hand  over 
his  heart.']     No,  that  would  be  decidedly  dis- 


COMRADES  9 

agreeable,  decidedly.  In  the  first  place,  be- 
cause I  paint  better  than  you  do,  and  be- 
cause — 

3ERTHA  [Walking  up  and  down~\.  Speak  out. 
Because  I  am  a  woman ! 

AXEL.  Yes,  just  that.  It  may  seem  strange, 
but  to  me  it's  as  if  you  women  were  intruding 
and  plundering  where  we  have  fought  for  so 
long  while  you  sat  by  the  fire.  Forgive  me. 
Bertha,  for  talking  like  this,  but  such 
thoughts  have  occurred  to  me. 

BERTHA.  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that 
you're  exactly  like  all  other  men? 

AXEL.  Like  all  others  ?     I  should  hope  so ! 

BERTHA.  And  you  have  become  so  superior 
lately.     You  didn't  use  to  be  like  that. 

AXEL.  It  must  be  because  I  am  superior !  Doing 
something  that  we  men  have  never  done  be- 
fore! 

BERTHA.  What !  What  are  you  saying !  Shame 
on  you ! 

wiLLMER.  There,  there,  good  friends !    No,  but, 
dear  friends  —  Bertha,  control  yourself. 
[He  gives  her  a  look  which  she  tries  to 
make  out.'\ 

BERTHA  [Changing^.  Axel,  let's  be  friends! 
And  hear  me  a  moment.  Do  you  think  that 
my  position  in  your  house  —  for  it  is  yours 
—  is  agreeable  to  me  ?  You  support  me,  you 
pay  for  my  studying  at  Julian's,  while  you 
yourself  cannot  afford  instruction.  Don't 
you  think  I  see  how  you  sit  and  wear  out 


10  STRINDBERG 

yourself  and  your  talent  on  these  pot-boiling 
drawings,  and  are  able  to  paint  only  in  lei- 
sure moments?  You  haven't  been  able  to 
afford  models  for  yourself,  while  you  pay 
mine  five  hard-earned  francs  an  hour.  You 
don't  know  how  good  —  how  noble  —  how 
sacrificing  you  are,  and  also  you  don't  know 
how  I  suffer  to  see  you  toil  so  for  me.  Oh, 
Axel,  you  can't  know  how  I  feel  my  position. 
What  am  I  to  you.''  Of  what  use  am  I  in 
your  house.?  Oh,  I  blush  when  I  think  about 
it! 
AXEL.  What,  what,  what !    Aren't  you  my  wife  ? 

BERTHA.    Yes,  but 

AXEL.   Well,  then.? 

BERTHA.  But  you  support  me. 

AXEL.  Well,  isn't  that  the  right  thing  to  do? 

BERTHA.  It  was  formerly  —  according  to  the 
old  scheme  of  marriage,  but  we  weren't  to 
have  it  like  that.     We  were  to  be  comrades. 

AXEL.  What  talk!  Isn't  a  man  to  support  his 
wife  ? 

BERTHA.  I  don't  want  it.  And  you,  Axel,  you 
must  help  me.  I'm  not  your  equal  when  it's 
like  that,  but  I  could  be  if  you  would  humble 
yourself  once,  just  once!  Don't  think  that 
you  are  alone  in  going  to  one  of  the  jury 
to  say  a  good  word  for  another.  If  it  were 
for  yourself,  it  would  be  another  matter,  but 
for  me  —  Forgive  me !  Now  I  beg  of  you  as 
nicely  as  I  know  how.  Lift  me  from  my 
humiliating  position  to  your  side,  and  I'll  be 


COMRADES  11 

so  grateful  I  shall  never  trouble  you  again 
with  reminding  you  of  my  position.  Never, 
Axel! 

AXEL.  Don't  ask  me ;  you  know  how  weak  I  am. 

BERTHA  [Embracing  him'\.  Yes,  I  shall  ask 
you  —  beg  of  you,  until  you  fulfil  my  prayer. 
Now,  don't  look  so  proud,  but  be  human! 
So!  \_Kisses  him.~\ 

AXEL  [To  Willmer^.  Look  here.  Gaga,  don't 
you  think  that  women  are  terrible  tyrants? 

wiLLMER  [Pained],  Yes,  and  especially  when 
they  are  submissive. 

BERTHA.  See,  now,  the  sky  is  clear  again. 
You'll  go,  won't  you,  Axel.^*  Get  on  your 
black  coat  now,  and  go.  Then  come  home, 
and  we'll  strike  out  together  for  something 
to  eat. 

AXEL.  How  do  you  know  that  Roubey  is  re- 
ceiving now.? 

BERTHA.  Don't  you  think  that  I  made  sure  of 
that.? 

AXEL.  What  a  schemer  you  are ! 

BERTHA  [Takes  a  black  cutaway  coat  from 
wardrobe].  Well,  one  would  never  get  any- 
where without  a  little  wire-pulling,  you  know. 
Here's  your  black  coat.    So ! 

AXEL.  Yes.  But  this  is  awful.  What  am  I  to 
say  to  the  man? 

BERTHA.  H'm.  Oh,  you'll  hit  on  something  on 
the  way.  Say  that  —  that  —  that  your  wife 
—  no  —  that  you're  expecting  a  christen- 
ing— 


12  STRINDBERG 

AXEL.  Fie,  Bertha. 

BERTHA.  Well,  say  that  you  can  get  him  dec- 
orated, then. 

AXEL.  Really  you  frighten  me,  Bertha! 

BERTHA.  Say  what  you  please,  then.  Come, 
now,  and  I'll  fix  your  hair  so  you'll  be  pre- 
sentable.    Do  you  know  his  wife.^^ 

AXEL.  No,  not  at  all. 

BERTHA  ^Brushing  his  hair'\.  Then  you  must 
get  an  introduction  to  her.  I  understand 
that  she  has  great  influence,  but  that  she 
doesn't  like  women. 

AXEL.  What  are  you  doing  to  my  hair? 

BERTHA.  I  am  fixing  it  as  they  are  wearing  it 
now. 

AXEL.  Yes,  but  I  don't  want  it  that  way. 

BERTHA.  Now  then — that's  fine.  Just  mind  me. 
\^She  goes  to  chiffonier  and  takes  out  a 
case  which  contains  a  Russian  Annae  order. 
She  tries  to  put  it  in  AxeVs  buttonhole.^ 

AXEL.  No,  Bertha.  You've  gone  far  enough 
now.     I  won't  wear  that  decoration. 

BERTHA.  But  you  accepted  it. 

AXEL.  Yes,  because  I  couldn't  decline  it.  But 
I'll  never  wear  it. 

BERTHA.  Do  you  belong  to  some  political  party 
that  is  so  liberal-minded  as  to  suppress  indi- 
vidual freedom  to  accept  distinctions? 

AXEL.  No,  I  don't.  But  I  belong  to  a  circle 
of  comrades  who  have  promised  each  other 
not  to  wear  their  merit  on  their  coats. 

BERTHA.  But  who  havc  accepted  salon  medals ! 


COMRADES  13 

AXEL.  Which  are  not  worn  on  their  coats. 

BERTHA.  What  do  you  say  to  this,  Gaga? 

wiLLMER.  As  long  as  distinctions  exist,  one  does 
one's  self  harm  to  go  about  with  the  mark  of 
infamy,  and  the  example  no  one  is  likely  to 
follow.  Take  them  away  for  all  of  me  —  I 
certainly  can't  get  them  away  from  the 
others. 

AXEL.  Yes,  and  when  my  comrades  who  are 
more  deserving  than  I  do  not  wear  them,  I 
would  lower  them  by  wearing  the  emblem. 

BERTHA.  But  it  doesn't  show  under  your  over- 
coat. No  one  will  know,  and  you  won't  brand 
any  one. 

wiLLMER.  Bertha  is  right  there.  You'll  wear 
your  order  under  your  coat,  not  on  your 
coat. 

AXEL.  Jesuits !  When  you  are  given  a  finger, 
you  take  the  whole  arm. 

[Abel  comes  in  wearing  fur  coat  and  cap.~\ 

BERTHA.  Oh,  here's  Abel!  Come  on,  now,  and 
settle  this  controversy. 

ABEL.  Hello,  Bertha!  Hello,  Axel!  How  are 
you.  Gaga?    What's  the  matter? 

BERTHA.  Axel  doesn't  want  to  wear  his  order, 
because  he  daren't  on  account  of  his  com- 
rades. 

ABEL.  Comrades  come  before  a  wife,  of  course 
—  that's  an  unwritten  law.  [She  sits  by 
table,  takes  up  tobacco  and  rolls  a  cigarette.} 

BERTHA  [Fastens  ribbon  in  AxeVs  buttonhole 
and  puts  the  star  back  in  case}     He  can  help 


14.  STRINDBERG 

me  without  hurting  any  one,  but  I  fear  he 
would  rather  hurt  me! 

AXEL.  Bertha,  Bertha!  But  you  people  will 
drive  me  mad!  I  don't  consider  it  a  crime 
to  wear  this  ribbon,  nor  have  I  taken  any 
oath  that  I  wouldn't  do  so,  but  at  our  ex- 
hibitions it's  considered  cowardly  not  to  dare 
to  make  one's  way  without  them. 

BERTHA.  Cowardly,  of  course!  But  you're  not 
going  to  take  your  own  course  this  time  — 
but  mine ! 

ABEL.  You  owe  it  to  the  woman  who  has  con- 
secrated her  life  to  you  to  be  her  delegate. 

AXEL.  I  feel  that  what  you  people  are  saying 
is  false,  but  I  haven't  the  time  or  energy  to 
answer  you  now;  but  there  is  an  answer! 
It's  as  if  you  were  drawing  a  net  about  me 
while  I  sit  absorbed  in  my~worK  I~can  feel" 
the  net  winding  about  me,  T5iit  my  foot  gets 
entangled  when  I  want  to  kick  it  aside.  But, 
you  wait,  if  only  I  free  my  hands,  I'll  get  out 
my  knife  and  cut  the  meshes  of  your  net! 
What  were  we  talking  about?  Oh,  yes,  I 
was  going  to  make  a  call.  Give  me  my  gloves 
and  my  overcoat.  Good-bye,  Bertha !  Good- 
bye.    Oh,  yes,  —  where  does  Roubey  live  ? 

WILLMER,       ABEL       and       BERTHA     [/w       UnisOTt]. 

Sixty-five  Rue  des  Martyrs. 
AXEL.  Why,  that's  right  near  here ! 
BERTHA.  Just   at   the   comer.      Thanks,   Axel, 

for  going.   Does  the  sacrifice  feel  very  heavy  ? 
AXEL.  I  can't  feel  anything  but  that  I  am  tired 


COMRADES  15 

of  all  this  talk  and  that  it  will  be  delightful 

to  get  out.     Good-bye.  [Goes  out.~\ 

ABEL.  It's   too   bad  about  Axel.      It's   a  pity. 

Did  you  know  that  he  is  refused.'^ 
BERTHA.  And  I,  then.? 
ABEL.  That's  not  settled  yet.      As  you  wrote 

your   own   name   with   French   spelling,   you 

won't  be  reached  until  O. 
BERTHA.   There's  still  hope  for  me? 
ABEL.  Yes,  for  you,  but  not  for  Axel. 
wiLLMER.  Now,  we'll  scc  Something! 
BERTHA.  How  do  you  know  that  he  is  refused.'* 
ABEL.  H'm,    I   met    a    "  hors    concours "    who 

knew,  and  I  was  quite  prepared  to  witness  a 

scene  when  I  came  in  here.     But  of  course 

he  hasn't  received  the  notice  yet. 
BERTHA.  No,  not  that  I  know  of.     But,  Abel, 

are  you   sure  that  Axel  will  meet  Madame 

Roubey  and  not  Monsieur.? 
ABEL.  What   should   he   see   Monsieur   Roubey 

for.?  He  hasn't  any  say  about  it,  but  she  is 

president  of  the  Woman-Painters  Protective 

Society. 
BERTHA.  And  I  am  not  refused  —  yet? 
ABEL.   No,  as  I  said,  and  Axel's  call  is  bound 

to  do  good.     He  has  a  Russian  order,  and 

everything  Russian  is  very  popular  in  Paris 

just  now.     But  it's  too  bad  about  Axel  just 

the  same. 
BERTHA.  Too  bad?    Why?     They  haven't  room 

for  everybody  on  the  salon  walls.     There  are 

so  many  women   refused  that  a  man  might 


16  STRINDBERG 

put  up  with  it  and  be  made  to  feel  it  for 
once.  But  if  I  get  in  now  —  we'll  soon  hear 
how  he  painted  my  picture,  how  he  has  taught 
me,  how  he  has  paid  for  my  lessons.  But  I 
shall  not  take  any  notice  of  that,  because  it 
isn't  true. 

wiLLMER.  Well,  we're  bound  to  see  something 
unusual  happen  now. 

BERTHA.  No,  I  believe  —  granted  that  I  am  not 
refused  —  that  we'll  see  something  very 
usual.  But  nevertheless  I'm  afraid  of  the 
actual  moment.  Something  tells  me  that 
things  won't  be  right  between  Axel  and  me 
again. 

ABEL.  And  it  was  just  when  you  were  equals 
that  things  were  going  to  be  right. 

WILLMER.  It  seems  to  me  that  your  position 
will  be  much  more  clearly  defined  and  much 
pleasanter  when  you  can  sell  your  pictures 
and  support  yourself. 

BERTHA.  It  should  be !  We'll  see  —  we'll  see ! 
[The  maid  enters  with  a  green  letter.^  A 
green  letter  for  Axel!  Here  it  is!  Here  it 
is!  He  is  refused!  Yes,  but  this  is  terrible; 
however,  it  will  be  a  consolation  to  me  if  I 
should  be  refused. 

ABEL.  But  if  you  are  not  refused  ^ 

BERTHA   \Pause'\ . 

ABEL.  You  won't  answer  that? 

BERTHA.  No,  I  won't  answcr  that. 

ABEL.  Because,  if  you  are  accepted,  the  equal- 


COMRADES  17 

ity  will  be  destroyed,  as  you  will  be  his  supe- 
rior. 

BERTHA.  Superior?  A  wife  superior  to  her 
husband  —  her  husband  —  oh ! 

wiLLMER.  It's  about  time  an  example  was  made. 

ABEL  [To  Bertha^.  You  were  at  the  luncheon 
today.?     Was  it  interesting.? 

BERTHA.   Oh,  yes. 

WILLMER.  When  are  you  going  to  review  my 
book,  Abel.? 

ABEL.   I'm  just  working  on  it. 

WILLMER.  Are  you  going  to  be  nice  to  me.? 

ABEL.  Very  nice.  —  Well,  Bertha,  how  and 
when  will  you  deliver  the  letter.? 

BERTHA  \_Walking  about~\.  That  is  just  what 
I  am  thinking  about.  If  he  hasn't  met 
Madame  Roubey,  and  if  he  hasn't  carried  out 
our  plan,  he  will  hardly  do  it  after  receiving 
this  blow. 

ABEL  IRisingl.  1  don't  think  Axel  is  so  base 
as  to  revenge  himself  on  you. 

BERTHA.  Base.?  Such  talk!  Didn't  he  go  just 
now  when  I  wanted  him  to,  because  I  am  his 
wife.?  Do  you  think  he  would  ever  have  gone 
for  any  one  else.? 

ABEL.  Would  you  like  it  if  he  had  done  it  for 
some  one  else.? 

BERTHA.  Good-bye  to  you  —  you  must  go 
now,  before  he  returns ! 

ABEL.  That's  what  I  think.     Good-bye,  Bertha. 

w^iLLMER.  Yes,  we  had  better  get  away.  Good- 
bye for  now. 


I     MRS 


18  S  T  R  I  N  D  B  E  R  G 

\_The    maid    enters    and    announces    Mrs. 
Hall] 
BERTHA.  Who?    Mrs.  Hall?    Who  can  that  be? 
ABEL  and  wiLLMER.     Good-bje,  Bertha. 

[They  go  out.     Mrs.  Hall  comes  in.     She 
is  -flashily  though  carelessly  dressed.     She 
looks  like  an  adventure ss.^ 
MRS.  HALL.  I  don't  know  that  I  have  the  honor 

to  be  known  to  you,  but  you  are  Mrs.  Alberg, 

nee  Alund,  are  you  not? 
BERTHA.  Yes,  I'm  Mrs.  Alberg.    Won't  you  sit 

down  ? 
MRS.  HALL.   My  name  is  Hall.     [A^if^.]     Oh,  my 

lord,  but  I'm  so   tired!     I   have  walked   up 

so  many  stairs  —  oh-ho-ho-ho,  I  believe  I'll 

faint ! 
BERTHA.  How  Can  I  be  of  service  to  you? 
MRS.  HALL.    You  know  Doctor  Ostermark,  don't 

you? 
BERTHA.  Yes,  he's  an  old  friend  of  mine. 
MRS.  HALL.    An  old  friend.    Well,  you  see,  dear 

Mrs.  Alberg,  I  was  married  to  him  once,  but 

we  separated.     I  am  his  divorced  wife. 
BERTHA.  Oh !   He  has  never  told  me  about  that. 
MRS.  HALL.  Oh,  people  don't  tell  such  things. 
BERTHA.  He  told  me  he  was  a  widower. 
MRS.  HALL.     Well,  you  were  a  young  girl  then, 

and  I  suppose  he  isn't  so  anxious  to  have  it 

known  anyway. 
BERTHA.  And  I  who  have  always  believed  that 

Doctor  Ostermark  was  an  honorable  man! 


COMRADES  19 

MRS.  HALL  \^Sarcastic'\.  Yes,  he's  a  good  one! 
He  is  a  real  gentleman,  I  must  say. 

BERTHA.  Well,  but  why  do  you  tell  me  all  this? 

MRS.  HALL.  Just  Wait,  my  dear  Mrs.  Alberg  — 
wait  and  you  shall  hear.  You  are  a  member 
of  the  society,  aren't  you? 

BERTHA.  Yes,  I  am. 

MRS.  HALL.  Just  SO ;   Only  wait  now. 

BERTHA.  Did  you  have  any  children? 

MRS.  HALL.  Two — two  daughters,  Mrs.  Alberg. 

BERTHA.  That's  another  matter!  And  he  left 
you  in  want? 

MRS.  HALL.  Just  Wait  now !  He  gave  us  a 
small  allowance,  not  enough  for  the  rent  even. 
And  now  that  the  girls  are  grown  up  and 
about  to  start  in  life,  now  he  writes  us  that 
he  is  a  bankrupt  and  that  he  can't  send  us 
more  than  half  the  allowance.  Isn't  that  nice, 
just  now,  when  the  girls  are  grown  up  and 
are  going  out  into  life? 

BERTHA.  We  must  look  into  this.  He'll  be  here 
in  a  few  days.  Do  you  know  that  you  have 
the  law  on  your  side  and  that  the  courts  can 
force  him  to  pay?  And  he  shall  be  forced 
to  do  so.  Do  you  understand?  So,  he  can 
bring  children  into  the  world  and  then  leave 
them  empty-handed  with  the  poor,  deserted 
mother.  Oh,  he'll  find  out  something  very 
different!     Will  you  give  me  your  address? 

MRS.  HALL  l^Gives  her  card~\.  You  are  so  good, 
Mrs.  Alberg.  And  you  won't  be  vexed  with 
me  if  I  ask  a  little  favor  of  you? 


20  STRINDBERG 

BERTHA.  You  Can  depend  on  me  entirely.  I 
shall  write  the  secretary  immediately  — 

MRS.  HALL.  Oh,  you're  so  good,  but  before  the 
secretary  can  answer,  I  and  my  poor  children 
will  probably  be  thrown  out  into  the  street. 
Dear  Mrs.  Alberg,  you  couldn't  lend  me  a 
trifle — just  wait — a  trifle  of  twenty  francs .^^ 

BERTHA.  No,  dear  lady,  I  haven't  any  money. 
My  husband  supports  me  for  the  time  being, 
and  you  may  be  sure  that  I'm  reminded  of 
the  fact.  It's  bitter  to  eat  the  bread  of 
charity  when  one  is  young,  but  better  times 
are  coming  for  me  too. 

MRS.  HALL.  My  dear,  good  Mrs.  Alberg,  you 
must  not  refuse  me.  If  you  do,  I  am  a  lost 
woman.     Help  me,  for  heaven's  sake. 

BERTHA.  Are  you  terribly  in  need? 

MRS.  HALL.  And  you  ask  me  that ! 

BERTHA.  I'll  let  you  have  this  money  as  a  loan. 
\_She  goes  to  chiffonier. ~\  Twenty,  forty, 
sixty,  eighty  —  lacking  twenty.  What  did 
I  do  with  it.f^  H'm,  luncheon,  of  course! 
l^She  writes  in  account-book.^  Paints  twenty, 
incidentals  twenty  —  there  you  are. 

MRS.  HALL.  Thank  you,  my  good  Mrs.  Alberg, 
thanks,  dear  lady. 

BERTHA.  There,  there.  But  I  can't  give  you 
any  more  time  today.  So,  good-bye,  and  de- 
pend on  me. 

MRS.  HALL   [Uncertain^.     Just  a  moment  now. 

BERTHA  [Listening  without^.  No,  you  must 
go  now. 


COMRADES  21 

MRS.  HALL.  Just  a  moment.  What  was  I  going 
to  say  ?  —  Well,  it  doesn't  matter. 

\_Goes  out.  Bertha  is  alone  for  a  moment, 
when  she  hears  Axel  coming.  She  hides 
the  green  letter  in  her  pocket.^ 

BERTHA.  Back  already?  Well,  did  you  meet 
her  —  him  ? 

AXEL.  I  didn't  meet  him,  but  her,  which  was 
much  better.  I  congratulate  you.  Bertha. 
Your  picture  is  already  accepted ! 

BERTHA.  Oh,  no!  What  are  you  saying?  And 
yours  ? 

AXEL.  It  isn't  decided  yet  —  but  it  will  surely 
go  through,  too. 

BERTHA.  Are  you  sure  of  that? 

AXEL.  Of  course  — 

BERTHA.  Oh,  I'm  accepted !  Good,  how  good ! 
But  why  don't  you  congratulate  me? 

AXEL.  Haven't  I?  I'm  quite  sure  that  I  said, 
"  I  congratulate  you !  "  For  that  matter, 
one  mustn't  sell  the  skin  before  the  bear  is 
killed.  To  get  into  the  salon  isn't  anything. 
It's  just  a  toss-up.  It  can  even  depend  on 
what  letter  one's  name  begins  with.  You 
come  in  O,  as  you  spelled  your  name  in 
French.  When  the  lettering  starts  with  M 
it's  always  easier. 

BERTHA.  So,  you  wish  to  say  that  perhaps  I 
got  in  because  my  name  begins  with  O? 

AXEL.   Not  on  account  of  that  alone. 

BERTHA.  And  if  you  are  refused,  it's  because 
your  name  begins  with  A. 


2£  STRINDBERG 

AXEL.  Not  exactly  that  alone,  but  it  might  be 
on  that  account. 

BERTHA.  Look  here,  I  don't  think  you're  as 
honorable  as  you  would  seem.  You  are  jeal- 
ous. 

AXEL.  Why  should  I  be,  when  I  don't  know 
what  has  happened  to  me  yet? 

BERTHA.  But  when  you  do  know? 

AXEL.  What?  \_Bertha  takes  out  letter.  Axel 
puts  his  hand  to  his  heart  and  sits  in  a  chair. ^ 
What!  [Controls  himself.]  That  was  a 
blow  I  had  not  expected.  That  was  most 
disagreeable ! 

BERTHA.  Well,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  help  you 
now. 

AXEL.  You  seem  to  be  filled  with  malicious  de- 
light, Bertha.  Oh,  I  feel  that  a  great  hate 
is  beginning  to  grow  in  here.  [Indicating 
his  breast.] 

BERTHA.  Perhaps  I  look  delighted  because  I've 
had  a  success,  but  when  one  is  tied  to  a  man 
who  cannot  rejoice  in  another's  good  for- 
tune, it's  difficult  to  sympathize  with  his  mis- 
fortune. 

AXEL.  I  don't  know  why,  but  it  seems  as  if 
we  had  become  enemies  now.  The  strife  of 
position  has  come  between  us,  and  we  can 
never  be  friends  any  more. 

BERTHA.  Can't  your  sense  of  justice  bend  and 
recognize  me  as  the  abler,  the  victorious  one 
in  the  strife? 

AXEL.  You  are  not  the  abler. 


COMRADES  23 

BERTHA.  The  jury  must  have  thought  so,  how- 
ever. 

AXEL.  But  surely  you  know  that  I  paint  better 
than  you  do. 

BERTHA.  Are  you  so  sure  of  that.^* 

AXEL.  Yes,  I  am.  But  for  that  matter  —  you 
worked  under  better  conditions  than  I.  You 
didn't  have  to  do  any  pot-boiHng,  you  could 
go  to  the  studio,  you  had  models,  and  you 
were  a  woman ! 

BERTHA.  Yes,  now  I'll  hear  how  I  have  lived 
on  you  — 

AXEL.  Between  ourselves,  yes,  but  the  world 
won't  know  unless  you  go  and  tell  it  yourself. 

BERTHA.  Oh,  the  world  knows  that  already. 
But  tell  me,  why  don't  you  suffer  when  a 
comrade,  a  man  comrade,  is  accepted,  al- 
though he  has  less  merit  than  you.^* 

AXEL.  I'll  have  to  think  about  that.  You  see 
our  feeling  toward  you  women  has  never  been 
critical  —  we've  taken  you  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  so  I've  never  thought  about  our 
relations  as  against  each  other.  Now  when 
the  shoe  pinches,  it  strikes  me  that  we  are 
not  comrades,  for  this  experience  makes  me 
feel  that  you  women  do  not  belong  here. 
[Indicating  the  studio.]  A  comrade  is  a 
more  or  less  loyal  competitor;  we  are  ene- 
mies. You  women  have  been  lying  down  in 
the  rear  while  we  attacked  the  enemy.  And 
now,  when  we  have  set  and  supplied  the  table. 


M  STRINDBERG 

you  pounce  down  upon  it  as  if  you  were  in 
your  own  home! 

BERTHA.  Oh,  fie,  have  we  ever  been  allowed  in 
the  conflict? 

AXEL.  You  have  always  been  allowed,  but  you 
have  never  wanted  to  take  part,  or  haven't 
been  able  to  do  so  in  our  domain,  where  you 
are  now  breaking  in.  Technic  had  to  be  put 
through  its  whole  development  and  comple- 
tion by  us  before  you  entered.  And  now  you 
buy  the  centurions'  work  for  ten  francs  an 
hour  in  a  studio,  and  with  money  that  we 
have  acquired  by  our  work. 

BERTHA.  You  are  not  honorable  now.  Axel. 

AXEL.  When  was  I  honorable?  When  I  allowed 
you  to  use  me  like  an  old  shoe?  But  now  you 
are  my  superior  —  and  now  I  can't  strive  to 
be  honorable  any  longer.  Do  you  know  that 
this  adversity  will  also  change  our  economic 
relations?  I  cannot  think  of  painting  any 
more,  but  must  give  up  my  life's  dream  and 
become  a  pot-boiler  in  earnest. 

BERTHA.  You  needn't  do  that;  when  I  can  sell, 
I  will  support  myself. 

AXEL.  For  that  matter,  what  sort  of  an  alliance 
have  we  gone  into  ?  Marriage  should  be  built 
on  common  interests ;  ours  is  built  on  op- 
posing interests. 

BERTHA.  You  cau  work  all  that  out  by  your- 
self ;  I'm  going  out  for  dinner  now,  —  are 
you  coming? 


COMRADES  25 

AXEL.  No,  I  want  to  be  alone  with  my  unhap- 
piness. 

BERTHA.  And  I  want  company  for  my  happi- 
ness. —  But  we  have  invited  people  to  come 
here  for  the  evening  —  that  won't  do  now, 
with  your  misery,  will  it? 

AXEL.  It  isn't  a  very  brilliant  prospect,  but 
there's  no  way  out.     Let  them  come. 

BERTHA  [^Dressing  to  go  out~\.  But  you  must 
be  here,  or  it  will  look  as  if  you  were  cow- 
ardly. 

AXEL.  I'll  be  with  you,  don't  worry  —  but  give 
me  a  bit  of  money  before  you  go. 

BERTHA.  We've  reached  the  end  of  our  cash. 

AXEL.  The  end.P 

BERTHA.  Yes,  money  comes  to  an  end  too  1 

AXEL.  Can  you  lend  me  ten  francs? 

BERTHA  [Taking  out  pockethook^.  Ten 
francs?  Yes,  indeed,  if  I  have  it.  Here  you 
are.  Won't  you  come  along?  Tell  me. 
They'll  think  it  rather  strange! 

AXEL.  And  play  the  defeated  lion  before  the 
triumphant  chariot?  No,  indeed,  I'll  need 
my  time  to  learn  my  part  for  this  evening's 
performance. 

BERTHA.  Good-bye  then. 

AXEL.  Good-bye,  Bertha.  Let  me  ask  you  one 
thing. 

BERTHA.  What  then? 

AXEL.  Don't  come  home  intoxicated.  It  would 
be  more  disagreeable  today  than  ever. 

BERTHA.  Does  it  couccm  you  how  I  come  home? 


26  STRINDBERG 

AXEL.  Well,  I  feel  sort  of  responsible  for  you, 
as  for  a  relative,  considering  that  you  bear 
the  same  name  that  I  do,  and  besides,  it  is 
still  disgusting  to  me  to  see  a  woman  intox- 
icated. 

BERTHA.  Why  is  it  any  more  disgusting  than 
to  see  a  man  intoxicated  .f^ 

AXEL.  Yes,  why?  Perhaps  because  you  don't 
bear  being  seen  without  a  disguise. 

BERTHA  l^Startingl.  Good-bye,  you  old  talk- 
ing-machine.    You  won't  come  along  .f* 

AXEL.    No ! 

[Bertha  goes  out;    Axel  rises,  takes  off  his 
cutaway  to  change  it  for  working  coat,~\ 

Curtain. 


ACT  n. 

Same  scene  as  Act  I,  hut  there  is  a  large  table 
with  chairs  around  it  in  middle  of  scene.  On 
table  there  is  writing  material  and  a  speaker's 
gavel.  Axel  is  painting.  Abel  is  sitting 
near  him.    She  is  smoking. 

AXEL.  They  have  finished  dinner  and  are  hav- 
ing their  coffee  now.     Did  they  drink  much.'* 

ABEL.  Oh,  yes,  and  Bertha  bragged  and  was 
disagreeable. 

AXEL.  Tell  me  one  thing,  Abel,  are  you  my 
friend,  or  not? 

ABEL.  H'm  —  I  don't  know. 

AXEL.  Can  I  trust  you.?     . 

ABEL.  No  —  you  can't. 

AXEL.  Why  not? 

ABEL.   Oh,  I  just  feel  that  you  can't. 

AXEL.  Tell  me,  Abel,  you  who  have  the  common 
sense  of  a  man  and  can  be  reasoned  with,  tell 
me  how  it  feels  to  be  a  woman.    Is  it  so  awful? 

ABEL  \_Jokingly^.  Yes,  of  course.  It  feels 
like  being  a  nigger. 

AXEL.  That's  strange.  Listen,  Abel.  You 
know  that  I  have  a  passion  for  equity  and 
justice  — 

ABEL.  I  know  you  are  a  visionary  —  and  that's 
why  things  will  never  go  well  with  you. 
27 


28  STRINDBERG 

AXEL.  But  things  go  well  with  you  —  because 
you  never  feel  anything? 

ABEL.  Yes. 

AXEL.  Abel,  have  you  really  never  had  any  de- 
sire to  love  a  man? 

ABEL.   How  silly  you  are! 

AXEL.   Have  you  never  found  any  one? 

ABEL.   No,  men  are  very  scarce. 

AXEL.  H'm,  don't  you  consider  me  a  man? 

ABEL.  You !    No  ! 

AXEL,   That's  what  I  fancied  myself  to  be. 

ABEL.  Are  you  a  man?  You,  who  work  for  a 
woman  and  go  around  dressed  like  a  woman? 

AXEL.  What?     I,  dressed  like  a  woman? 

ABEL.  The  way  you  wear  your  hair  and  go 
around  bare-necked,  while  she  wears  stiff  col- 
lars and  short  hair;  be  careful,  she'll  soon 
take  your  trousers  away  from  you. 

AXEL.   How  you  talk! 

ABEL.  And  what  is  your  position  in  your  own 
house?  You  beg  money  from  her,  and  she 
puts  you  under  her  guardianship.  No,  you 
are  not  a  man !  But  that's  why  she  took  you, 
when  her  affairs  were  in  bad  shape. 

AXEL.  You  hate  Bertha;  what  have  you 
against  her  ? 

ABEL.  I  don't  know,  but  perhaps  I,  too,  have 
been  struck  with  that  same  passion  for  just- 
ice. 

AXEL.  Look  here.  Don't  you  believe  in  your 
great  cause  any  longer? 


COMRADES  29 

ABEL.  Sometimes  !  Sometimes  not !  What  can 
one  believe  in  any  more?  Sometimes  it 
strikes  me  that  the  old  ways  were  better.  As 
mothers  we  had  an  honored  and  respected 
position  when  in  that  way  we  fulfilled  our 
duty  as  citizens ;  as  housewives  we  were  a 
great  power,  and  to  bring  up  a  family  was 
not  an  ignominious  occupation.  Give  me  a 
cognac,  Axel.     We  have  talked  so  much. 

AXEL   [Getting  cognac^.     Why  do  you  drink? 

ABEL.  I  don't  know.  If  one  could  only  find  the 
exceptional  man ! 

AXEL.  What  sort  would  that  be? 

ABEL.  The  man  who  rules  a  woman ! 

AXEL.  Well,  and  if  you  found  one  ? 

ABEL.  Then  I  would  —  as  they  say  —  fall  in 
love  with  him.  Think  if  this  whole  noise 
were  blague.     Think ! 

AXEL.  No,  there  is  surely  life,  motion  in  the 
movement,  whatever  it  is. 

ABEL.  Yes,  there's  so  much  motion  —  forward 
and  backward !  And  a  good  deal  of  folly  can 
come  of  the  "  motion,"  if  they  only  get  the 
majority  for  it. 

AXEL.  If  it  turns  out  that  way,  then  you've 
made  a  damned  lot  of  noise  uselessly,  for  now 
it's  beginning  to  be  loathsome  to  live. 

ABEL.  We  nfake  so  much  noise  that  we  make 
your  heads  reel.  That's  the  trouble!  Well, 
Axel,  your  position  will  be  freer  now  that 
Bertha  has  been  able  to  sell. 

AXEL.   Sell!     Has  she  sold  a  picture? 


30  STRINDBERG 

ABEL.  Don't  you  know  that?  The  small  pic- 
ture with  the  apple-tree. 

AXEL.  No,  she  hasn't  said  anything  about  it. 
When  did  it  happen.? 

ABEL.  Day  before  yesterday.  Don't  you  know 
about  it.^*  Well,  then  she  intends  to  surprise 
you  with  the  money. 

AXEL.  Surprise  me.'^  She  takes  care  of  the  cash 
herself. 

ABEL.   So  !    Then  it  will  —  Hush,  she  is  coming. 

[Bertha  comes  in.^ 

BERTHA  [To  Abel^.  Oh,  good  evening;  are 
you  here.'^     What  made  you  leave  us? 

ABEL.  I  thought  it  was  tiresome. 

BERTHA.  Yes,  there  is  no  fun  in  rejoicing  for 
others ! 

ABEL.    No ! 

BERTHA  [To  Axel^.  And  you  sit  diligently 
niggling,  I  see. 

AXEL.  Yes,  I'm  daubing  away. 

BERTHA.  Let  me  see!  That's  very  good  in- 
deed—  but  the  left  arm  is  far  too  long. 

AXEL.   Do  you  think  so? 

BERTHA.  Think  so?  Can't  I  see  that  it  is? 
Give  me  the  brush  and  — 

[She  takes  brush.] 

AXEL.  No,  let  me  alone.     Aren't  you  ashamed? 

BERTHA.  What's  that? 

AXEL  [Vexed].  Shame,  I  said.  [Rises.]  Are 
you  trying  to  teach  me  how  to  paint? 

BERTHA.  Why  not? 


COMRADES  31 

AXEL.  Because  you  have  still  much  to  learn 
from  me.     But  I  can  learn  nothing  from  you. 

BERTHA.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  gentleman  is 
not  very  respectful  to  his  wife.  One  should 
bear  in  mind  the  respect  one  owes  to  — 

ABEL.  Now  you're  old-fashioned.  What  par- 
ticular respect  does  a  man  owe  a  woman  if 
they  are  to  be  equals? 

BERTHA  \_To  Abel'\.  So  you  think  it's  all  right 
for  a  man  to  be  coarse  with  his  wife.'* 

ABEL.  Yes,  when  she  is  impudent  to  him. 

AXEL.  That's  right!  Tear  each  other's  eyes 
out! 

ABEL.  Not  at  all!  The  whole  thing  is  too  in- 
significant for  that. 

AXEL.  Don't  say  that.  Look  here,  Bertha,  con- 
sidering that  our  economic  condition  is  to 
undergo  a  change  from  now  on,  won't  you 
be  so  good  as  to  let  me  see  the  account-book  .^^ 

BERTHA.  What  a  noble  revenge  for  being  re- 
fused ! 

AXEL.  What  revenge .?  What  has  the  account- 
book  got  to  do  with  my  being  turned  down 
at  the  salon.?  Give  me  the  key  to  the  chif- 
fonier. 

BERTHA  [^Feeling  in  her  pocketl.  Very  well. 
H'm!  That's  strange!  I  thought  I  just 
had  it. 

AXEL.  Find  it  I 

BERTHA.  You  speak  in  such  a  commanding  tone. 
I  don't  like  that. 

AXEL.   Come  now,  find  the  key. 


S2  STRINDBERG 

BERTHA   \^Looking  here  and  there  in  the  roorri]. 

Yes,  but  I  can't  understand  it;    I  can't  find 

it.     It  must  be  lost  some  way. 
AXEL.  Are  you  sure  that  you  haven't  got  it? 
BERTHA.  Absolutely  sure. 

[Axel   rings;     after   a    moment    the   maid 
comes  in.~\ 
AXEL   [To  maid].     Go  fetch  a  locksmith. 
MAID.  A  locksmith? 
AXEL.  Yes,  a  smith  who  can  pick  a  lock. 

[Bertha  gives  the  maid  a  look.] 
MAID.  Right  away,  monsieur. 

[Maid  goes  out.     Axel  changes  his  coat, 
discovers  the  order  on   the  lapel,  tears  it 
off  and  throws  it  on  the  table.] 
AXEL.   Pardon  me,  ladies ! 
BERTHA   [Mildly].     Don't  mind  us.     Are  you 

going  out? 
AXEL.   I  am  going  out. 
BERTHA.  Aren't   you    going   to    stay    for   the 

meeting  ? 
AXEL.  No,  I  am  not ! 

BERTHA.  Yes,  but  they  will  think  that  very  dis- 
courteous. 
AXEL.  Let  them.     I  have  more  important  things 

to    do   than   listening   to   the   drivel   of   you 

women. 
BERTHA   [Worried].     Where  are  you  going? 
AXEL.  I  don't  need  to  account  for  myself,  as 

I  don't  ask  you  to  account  for  your  actions. 
BERTHA.  You  won't  forget  that  we  have  invited 


COMRADES  33 

guests    for   the    masquerade    tomorrow    eve- 
ning? 

AXEL.  Guests?  That's  true,  tomorrow  evening. 
H'm! 

BERTHA.  It  won't  do  to  postpoue  it  when  both 
Ostermark  and  Carl  have  arrived  today,  and 
I  have  asked  them  to  come. 

AXEL.  So  much  the  better ! 

BERTHA.  And  now  come  home  early  enough  to 
try  on  your  costume. 

AXEL.  My  costume?  Yes,  of  course;  I  am  to 
take  the  part  of  a  woman. 

[^The  maid  enters.^ 

MAID.  The  smith  hasn't  time  now,  but  he'll 
come  within  two  hours. 

AXEL.  He  hasn't  time,  eh?  Well,  perhaps  the 
key  will  turn  up  anyway.  However,  I  must 
be  off  now.     Good-bye. 

BERTHA  [Very  mild].  Good-bye  then.  Don't 
come  home  late. 

AXEL.  I  don't  know  just  what  I  will  do.  Good- 
bye. 

[Abel  nods  good-bye.  Axel  goes  out.~\ 

ABEL.   How  very  cocky  his  lordship  was ! 

BERTHA.  Such  impudeucc !  Do  you  know,  I 
had  a  good  mind  to  tame  him,  break  him  so 
that  he'd  come  back  crawling  to  me. 

ABEL.  Yes,  that  tweak  the  salon  disappointment 
gave  him  doesn't  seem  to  have  taken  all  the 
spunk  out  of  him.  Bertha,  tell  me,  have  you 
ever  loved  that  clown? 

BERTHA.  Loved  him?     I  liked  him  very  much 


34  STRINDBERG 

because  he  was  nice  to  me.  But  he  is  so  silly 
and  —  when  he  nags  as  he  did  just  now, 
I  feel  that  I  could  hate  him.  Think  of  it, 
it's  already  around  that  he  painted  my  pic- 
ture! 

ABEL.  Well,  if  it's  gone  as  far  as  that,  then 
you  must  do  something  eclatant. 

BERTHA.  If  I  only  knew  how ! 

ABEL.  I'm  usually  inventive.  Let  me  see.  Look 
here,  why  couldn't  you  have  his  refused  pic- 
ture brought  home  just  as  all  your  friends 
have  gathered  here  ? 

BERTHA.  No,  that  would  look  as  if  I  wanted 
to  triumph.     No,  that  would  be  too  terrible. 

ABEL.  Yes,  but  if  I  should  have  it  done?  Or 
Gaga,  that  would  be  better  still.  It  would 
be  sent  here  in  Axel's  name  by  the  porter. 
It's  got  to  come  home  anyway,  and  it's  no 
secret  that  it  was  refused. 

BERTHA.  No,  but  you  know  — 

ABEL.  What?  Hasn't  he  spread  false  reports, 
and  haven't  you  the  right  to  defend  yourself? 

BERTHA.  I  would  like  it  to  happen  very  much, 
but  I  don't  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
the  doing  of  it.  I  want  to  be  able  to  stand 
and  swear  that  I  am  quite  clean  and  innocent. 

ABEL.  You  shall  be  able  to  do  so.  I'll  attend 
to  it. 

BERTHA.  What  do  you  think  he  wanted  the 
account-book  for?  He  has  never  asked  to 
see  it  before.  Do  you  think  he  has  some 
scheme  in  his  head  about  it? 


COMRADES  35 

ABEL.  Ye-es!  Doubtless.  He  wants  to  see  if 
you've  accounted  for  the  three  hundred 
francs  you  got  for  your  picture. 

BERTHA.  What  picture? 

ABEL.  The  one  you  sold  to  Madame  Roubey. 

BERTHA.   How  do  you  know  about  that? 

ABEL.  The  whole  crowd  knows  about  it. 

BERTHA.  And  Axel,  too? 

ABEL.  Yes.  I  happened  to  mention  it  because 
I  thought  he  knew.  It  was  stupid  of  you 
not  to  tell  him. 

BERTHA.  Does  it  couccm  him  if  I  sell  a  — 

ABEL.  Yes,  in  a  way,  of  course  it  concerns  him. 

BERTHA.  Well,  then,  I  will  explain  that  I  didn't 
want  to  give  him  another  disappointment 
after  he  had  already  had  the  unhappiness  of 
seeing  me  accepted  at  the  salon. 

ABEL.  Strictly  speaking,  he  has  nothing  to  do 
with  your  earnings,  as  you  have  a  marriage 
compact,  and  you  have  every  reason  to  be 
tight  with  him.  Just  to  establish  a  precedent, 
buck  up  and  stand  your  own  ground  when 
he  returns  with  his  lecture  tonight. 

BERTHA.  Oh,  I  know  how  to  take  care  of  him. 
But  —  another  matter.  How  are  we  to  treat 
the  Ostermark  case? 

ABEL.  Ostermark,  —  yes,  he  is  my  great  enemy. 
You  had  better  let  me  take  care  of  him.  We 
have  an  old  account  that  is  still  unsettled, 
he  and  I.  Calm  yourself  on  that  score.  I'll 
make  him  yield,  for  we  have  the  law  on  our 
side. 


36  STRINDBERG 

BERTHA.  What  do  you  intend  to  do? 

ABEL.  Invite  Mrs.  Hall  and  her  two  daughters 

here  for  tomorrow  night,  and  then  we  will 

find  out  how  he  takes  it. 
BERTHA.  No,  indeed,  no  scandal  in  my  house ! 
ABEL.  Why  not?     Can  you  deny  yourself  such 

a  triumph?     If  it's  war,  one  must  kill  one's 

enemies,  not  just  wound  them.     And  now  it 

is  war.    Am  I  right? 
BERTHA.  Yes,  but  a  father,  and  his  wife  and 

daughters  whom  he  has  not  seen  for  eighteen 

years ! 
ABEL.  Well,  he'll  have  a  chance  to  see  them  now. 
BERTHA.  You're  terrible,  Abel! 
ABEL.   I'm  a  little  stronger  than  you,  that's  all. 

Marriage  must  have  softened  you.     Do  you 

live  as  married  people,  h'm? 
BERTHA.  How  f ooHsh  you  are ! 
ABEL.  You    have    irritated    Axel;     you    have 

trampled  on  him.     But  he  can  yet  bite  your 

heel. 
BERTHA.  Do   you  think  he  would   dare   to   do 

anything  ? 
ABEL.  I   believe   he'll   create   a   scene   when   he 

comes  home. 
BERTHA.  Well,  I  shall  give  him  as  good  as  he 

sends  — 
ABEL.   If    you    only    can !      But    that    business 

about  the  chiffonier  key  —  that  was  foolish, 

very  foolish. 
BERTHA.  Perhaps  it  was  foolish.     But  he  will 


COMRADES  37 

be  nice  enough  again  after  he  has  had  an 
airing.     I  know  him. 

l^The  maid  comes  in  with  a  package.^ 
MAID.  A   messenger  brought   this   costume   for 

Monsieur. 
BERTHA.  Very  well,  let  me  have  it.     That's  fine ! 
MAID.  But   it    must   be   for   madame,   as   it's   a 

lady's  costume. 
BERTHA.  No,   that's   all   right.      It's   for  mon- 
sieur. 
MAID.   But,     heavens !      is     monsieur     to     wear 

dresses  too? 
BERTHA.  Why  not,  when  we  have  to  wear  them.'' 
But  you  may  leave  us  now. 

[Maid  goes  out.     Bertha  opens  bundle  and 
takes  out  Spanish  costume.^ 
ABEL.   But  that  is  certainly  well  thought  out. 
Oh,  it's  beautiful  to   avenge  any  one's  stu- 
pidities. 

[Willmer  comes  in  with  a  messenger^  who 
carries  a  package.     Willmer  is  dressed  in 
black   frock   coat   with  lapels   faced  tenth 
white,  a  flower  in  buttonhole,  knee  breeches, 
red  cravat,  and  turned  over  cuffs.^ 
WILLMER.  Good  evening;   are  you  alone?   Here 
are  the  candles  and  here  are  the  bottles.     One 
chartreuse  and  two  vermouth ;    here  are  two 
packages    of   tobacco    and    the    rest    of    the 
things. 
BERTHA.  Well,  but  you  are  a  good  boy,  Gaga! 
WILLMER.  And  here  is  the  receipted  bill. 


38  STRINDBERG 

BERTHA.  Is   it   paid?      Then   you   have   spent 

money  again? 
wiLLMER.  We'll  have  plenty  of  time  to  settle 

that.     But  you  must  hurry  now,  as  the  old 

lady  will  soon  be  here. 
BERTHA.  Then   be   good   enough   to   open   the 

bottles  while  I  fix  the  candles. 
wiLLMER.  Of  course  I  will. 

[Bertha  opens  package  of  candles  at  table; 
Willmer    stands    beside    her,    taking    the 
wrappers  from  bottles, '\ 
ABEL.  You  look  quite  family-like  as  you  stand 

there  together.     You  might  have  made  quite 

a  nice  little  husband,  Gaga. 

[Willmer  puts  his  arm  around  Bertha  and 
kisses  her  on  the  neck.     Bertha  turns  on 
Willmer  and  slaps  his  face,} 
BERTHA.  Aren't  you  ashamed,  you  little  hornet ! 

What  are  you  up  to,  anyway? 
ABEL.  If  you  can  stand  that.  Gaga,  then  you 

can  stand  the  knife. 
WILLMER   \_Angry'\.    Little  hornet?    Don't  you 

know  who  I  am?     Don't  you  know  that  I'm 

an  author  of  rank? 
BERTHA.  You !   who  Write  nothing  but  trash ! 
WILLMER.  It  wasn't  trash  when  I  wrote  for  you. 
BERTHA.  You  only  copied  what  we   said,  that 

was  all! 
WILLMER.  Take  care,  Bertha.     You  know  that 

I  can  ruin  you! 
BERTHA.   So,    you    threaten,    you    little    Fido! 


COMRADES  89 

[To  AbeLI  Shall  we  give  the  boy  a  spank- 
ing? 

ABEL.  Think  what  you  are  saying! 

wiLLMER.  So !  I've  been  a  little  Fido,  who  has 
been  lying  on  your  skirt;  but  don't  forget 
that  I  can  bite  too. 

BERTHA.  Let  me  see  your  teeth ! 

wiLLMER.  No,  but  you  shall  feel  them ! 

BERTHA.  Very  well,  come  on  then!     Come! 

ABEL.  Now,  now,  be  quiet  before  you  go  too 
far. 

wiLLMER  \_To  Bertha].  Do  you  know  what 
one  has  a  right  to  say  about  a  married  woman 
who  accepts  presents  from  a  young  bachelor.? 

BERTHA.  Presents? 

wiLLMER.  You've  accepted  presents  from  me 
for  two  years. 

BERTHA.  Presents !  You  should  have  a  thrash- 
ing, you  lying  little  snipe,  always  hanging 
around  the  petticoats !  Don't  you  suppose  I 
can  squelch  you? 

wiLLMER   [With  a  shrug].     Perhaps. 

BERTHA.  And  you  dare  throw  a  shadow  on  a 
woman's  honor! 

wiLLMER.  Honor!  H'm!  Does  it  do  you  any 
honor  to  have  had  me  buy  part  of  the  house- 
hold things  which  you  have  charged  up  to 
your  husband? 

BERTHA.  Leave  my  house,  you  scamp ! 

WILLMER.  Your  house!  Among  comrades  one 
is  not  careful,  but  among  enemies  one  must 
count  every  hair!     And  you  shall  be  com- 


40  STRINDBERG 

pelled  to  go  over  the  accounts  with  me  —  ad- 
venturess—  depend  on  that!         \^Goes  out.^ 

ABEi..  You  will  suffer  for  this  foolishness !  To 
let  a  friend  leave  you  as  an  enemy  —  that's 
dangerous. 

BERTHA.  Oh,  let  him  do  what  he  likes.  He 
dared  to  kiss  me!  He  dared  to  remind  me 
that  I'm  a  woman. 

ABEL.  Do  you  know,  I  believe  a  man  will  always 
have  that  in  mind.  You  have  been  playing 
with  fire. 

BERTHA.  Fire !  Can  one  ever  find  a  man  and  a 
woman  who  can  live  like  comrades  without 
danger  of  fire.? 

ABEL.  No,  I  don't  think  so ;  as  long  as  there 
are  two  sexes  there  is  bound  to  be  fire. 

BERTHA.   Yes,  but  that  must  be  done  away  with ! 

ABEL.  Yes  —  it  must  be  —  try  it ! 

[^The  maid  comes  in;    she  is  bursting  with 
laughter. 'I 

MAID.  There  is  a  lady  out  here  who  calls  her- 
self —  Richard  —  Richard  Wahlstrom ! 

BERTHA  l^Going  toward  door^.  Oh!  Richard 
is  here. 

ABEL.  Oh,  well  then,  if  she  has  come,  we  can 
open  the  meeting.  And  now  to  see  if  we  can 
disentangle  your  skein. 

BERTHA.  Disentangle  it,  or  cut  it! 

ABEL.  Or  get  caught  in  it ! 

Curtain. 


ACT    III. 

Same  scene.  The  hanging-lamp  is  lighted. 
Moonlight  streams  in,  lighting  up  the  studio 
window.  There  is  a  'fire  in  the  stove.  Bertha 
and  the  maid  are  discovered.  Bertha  is 
dressed  in  a  negligee  with  lace.  She  is  sewing 
on  the  Spanish  costume.  The  maid  is  cutting 
out  a  frill. 

BERTHA.  There's  no  fun  sitting  up  waiting  for 
one's  husband. 

MAID.  Do  you  think  it  is  more  fun  for  him  to 
sit  and  wait  for  madame?  This  is  the  first 
time  that  he  has  been  out  alone  — 

BERTHA.  Well,  what  does  he  do  when  he  sits 
here  alone? 

MAID.  He  paints  on  pieces  of  wood. 

BERTHA.   On  wooden  panels.'' 

MAID.  Yes,  he  has  big  piles  of  wood  that  he 
paints  on. 

BERTHA.  H'm!  TelLme  one  thing,  Ida;  has 
monsieur  ever  been  familiar  with  you? 

MAID.  Oh,  never!  No,  he  is  such  a  proper  gen- 
tleman. 

BERTHA.  Are  you  sure? 

MAID  l^Positive^,  Does  madame  think  that  I 
am  such  a  — 

41 


^  STRINDBERG 

BERTHA.  —  What  time  is  it  now  ? 
MAID.  It  must  be  along  toward  twelve. 
BERTHA.  Very  well.     Then  you  may  go  to  bed. 
MAID.  Won't  you  be  afraid  to  be  alone  with  all 

these  skeletons? 
BERTHA.  I,  afraid  ?  —  Hush,  some  one  is  com- 
ing through  the  gate  —  so,  good  night  to 
you. 
MAID.  Good  night,  Madame.     Sleep  well. 

[^Goes  out.     Bertha  alone;    she  puts  the 
work  away;    throws  herself  on  the  conchy 
arranges  lace  on  her  gown,  then  she  jumps 
up,  turns  down  the  lamp  to  half-light,  then 
returns  to  couch  and  pretends  to  sleep.    A 
pause  before  Axel  enters.^ 
AXEii.  Is  any  one  here.'*    Are  you  here,  Bertha.'* 
[Bertha  is  silent.     Axel  goes  to  her.~\     Are 
you  asleep? 
BERTHA.   [Softlyl.     Ah,  is  it  you,  my  friend? 
Good   evening!     I  was   lying  here   and  fell 
asleep,  and  I  had  such  a  bad  dream. 
AXEL.  Now  you  are  lying,  for  I  saw  you  thro' 
the  window  from  the  garden  when  you  took 
this  pose.  [Bertha  jumps  up.^ 

AXEL  [Quietly'].  And  we  don't  want  any  se- 
ductive scenes  in  nightgowns,  nor  any  melo- 
dramas. Be  calm  and  listen  to  what  I  am 
going  to  tell  you. 

[He  sits  down  in  the  middle  of  the  room.] 
BERTHA.  What  have  you  got  to  tell  me? 
AXEL.  A  whole  lot  of  things ;   but  I  shall  begin 


COMRADES  43 

with  the  ending.  We  must  dissolve  this  con- 
cubinage. 

BERTHA.  What?  [Throwing  herself  on  the 
couch.'\  Oh,  my  God,  what  am  I  not  made 
to  live  through ! 

AXEL.  No  hysteria,  or  I  will  empty  the  water 
bottle  on  your  laces ! 

BERTHA.  This  is  your  revenge  because  I  de- 
feated you  in  an  open  competition ! 

AXEL.   That  has  no  connection  with  this  matter. 

BERTHA.  You  have  never  loved  me! 

AXEL.  Yes,  I  have  loved  you ;  that  was  my  only 
motive  for  marrying  you.  But  why  did  you 
marry  me?  Because  you  were  hard  up,  and 
because  you  had  green  sickness ! 

BERTHA.  It's  fortunate  that  no  one  can  hear  us. 

AXEL.  It  would  be  no  misfortune  if  any  one  did 
hear  us.  I've  treated  you  like  a  comrade, 
with  unlimited  trust,  and  I've  even  made  small 
sacrifices  that  you  know  about.  —  Has  the 
locksmith  been  here  yet? 

BERTHA.  No,  he  didn't  come. 

AXEL.  It  doesn't  matter  —  I  have  looked  over 
your  accounts. 

BERTHA.  So,  you've  been  spying  in  my  book, 
have  you? 

AXEL.  The  household  account-book  is  common 
property.  You  have  entered  false  expenses 
and  neglected  to  put  down  some  of  the  in- 
come. 

BERTHA.  Can  I  help  it  if  we  are  not  taught 
bookkeeping  at  school? 


44  STRINDBERG 

AXEL.  Nor  are  we.  And  as  far  as  your  bring- 
ing-up  is  concerned,  you  had  things  much 
better  than  I  did;  you  went  to  a  seminary, 
but  I  only  went  to  a  grade  school. 

BERTHA.  It's  not  books   that  bring  one  up  — 

AXEL.  No,  it's  the  parents!  But  it's  strange 
that  they  can't  teach  their  daughters  to  be 
honorable  — 

BERTHA.  Honorable!  I  wonder  if  the  majority 
of  criminals  are  not  to  be  found  among  men.^^ 

AXEL.  The  majority  of  the  punished,  you  should 
say ;  but  of  ninety-nine  per  cent,  of  criminal 
men  one  can  ask  with  the  judge,  "  Oil  est  la 
f emme  ?  "  But  —  to  return  to  you.  You 
have  lied  to  me  all  the  way  through,  and 
finally  you  have  cheated  me.  For  instance, 
you  put  down  twenty  francs  for  paints  in- 
stead of  for  a  twenty-franc  luncheon  at  Mar- 
guery. 

BERTHA.  That's  not  true;  the  luncheon  only 
cost  twelve  francs. 

AXEL.  That  is  to  say,  you  put  eight  in  your 
pocket.  Then  you  have  received  three  hun- 
dred francs  for  the  picture  that  you  sold. 

BERTHA.  "  What  a  woman  earns  by  her  work, 
she  also  controls."  That's  what  the  law 
states. 

AXEL.  That's  not  a  paradox,  then.''  Not  mono- 
mania.? 

BERTHA.  No,  it  seems  not. 

AXEL.  Of  course,  we  must  not  be  petty;  you 
control  your  earnings,  and  have  controlled 


COMRADES  45 

mine,  in  an  unspeakable  way ;  still,  don't  you 
think  that,  as  comrades,  you  should  have  told 
me  about  the  sale? 

BERTHA.   That  didn't  concern  you. 

AXEL.  It  didn't  concern  me  ?  Well,  then  it  only 
remains  for  me  to  bring  suit  for  divorce. 

BERTHA.  Divorce  !  Do  you  think  I  would  stand 
the  disgrace  of  being  a  divorced  wife?  Do 
you  think  that  I  will  allow  myself  to  be 
driven  from  my  home,  like  a  servant-maid 
who  is  sent  away  with  her  trunk? 

AXEL.  I  could  throw  you  out  into  the  street 
if  I  wished,  but  I  shall  do  a  more  humane 
thing  and  get  the  divorce  on  the  grounds  of 
incompatibility  of  temperament. 

BERTHA.  If  you  cau  talk  like  that,  you  have 
never  loved  me! 

AXEL.  Tell  me,  why  do  you  think  I  asked  for 
your  hand? 

BERTHA.   Because  you  wanted  me  to  love  you. 

AXEL.  Oh,  holy,  revered,  uncorruptible  stupid- 
ity —  yes !  I  could  accuse  you  of  counter- 
feiting, for  you  have  gone  into  debt  to  Will- 
mer  and  made  me  responsible  for  the  amount. 

BERTHA.  Ah,  the  little  insect !  he  has  been  talk- 
ing, has  he? 

AXEL.  I  just  left  him  after  paying  him  the  three 
hundred  and  fifty  francs  for  which  you  were 
indebted  to  him.  But  we  mustn't  be  small 
about  money  matters,  and  we  have  more  seri- 
ous business  to  settle.  You  have  allowed  this 
scoundrel  partially  to  pay  for  my  household, 


46  STRINDBERG 

and  in  doing  so  you  have  completely  ruined 
my  reputation.  What  have  you  done  with 
the  money? 

BERTHA.   The  whole  thing  is  a  lie. 

AXEL.  Have  you  squandered  it  on  luncheon  and 
dinner  parties.? 

BERTHA.  No,  I  have  saved  it ;  and  that's  some- 
thing you  have  no  conception  of,  spendthrift ! 

AXEL.  Oh,  you  saving  soul !  That  negligee  cost 
two  hundred  francs,  and  my  dressing-gown 
cost  twenty-five. 

BERTHA.  Have  you  anything  else  to  say  to  me? 

AXEL.  Nothing  else,  except  that  you  must  think 
about  supporting  yourself  from  now  on.  I 
don't  care  to  decorate  wooden  panels  any 
more  and  let  you  reap  the  earnings. 

BERTHA.  A-ha,  you  think  you  can  so  easily  get 
out  of  the  duty  that  you  made  yourself  re- 
sponsible for  when  you  fooled  me  into  be- 
coming your  wife  ?     You  shall  see ! 

AXEL.  Now  that  I've  had  my  eyes  opened,  the 
past  is  beginning  to  take  on  another  color. 
It  seems  to  me  almost  as  if  you  conjured  that 
courtship  of  ours ;  it  seems  almost  as  if  I 
had  been  the  victim  of  what  you  women  call 
seduction;  it  now  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  an  adventuress,  who 
lured  my  money  away  from  me  in  a  hotel 
garni;  it  seems  almost  as  if  I  had  lived  in 
vice  ever  since  I  was  united  with  you !  [i?is- 
ing.li  -^^^  now,  as  you  stand  there  with 
your  back  turned  to  me  and  I  see  your  neck 


COMRADES  47 

"With  your  short  hair,  it  is  —  yes,  it  is  ex- 
actly as  if  —  ugh !  —  as  if  you  were  Judith 
and  had  given  your  body  to  be  able  to  behead 
me!  Look,  there  is  the  dress  I  was  going  to 
wear,  that  you  wished  to  humiliate  me  with. 
Yes,  you  felt  that  it  was  debasing  to  wear 
those  things,  and  thought  it  disguised  your 
desire  to  irritate,  —  this  low-cut  bodice  and 
the  corsets  which  were  to  advertise  your 
woman's  wares.  No,  I  return  your  love- 
token  and  shake  ojff  the  fetters.  \^He  throws 
down  the  wedding-ring.  Bertha  looks  at  him 
in  wonderment.  Axel  pushes  hack  his  hair.~\ 
You  didn't  want  to  see  that  my  forehead  is 
higher  than  yours,  so  I  let  my  hair  conceal 
it,  so  as  not  to  humble  and  frighten  you. 
But  now  I  am  going  to  humble  you,  and 
since  you  were  not  willing  to  be  my  equal 
when  I  lowered  myself  to  your  level,  you 
shall  be  my  inferior,  which  you  are. 

BERTHA.  And  all  this  —  all  this  noble  revenge 
because  you  were  my  inferior! 

AXEL.  Yes,  I  was  your  inferior,  even  when  I 
painted  your  picture ! 

BERTHA.  Did  you  paint  my  picture.'*  If  you 
repeat  that,  I'll  strike  you. 

AXEL.  Yes,  your  kind,  who  despise  raw  strength, 
are  always  the  first  to  resort  to  it.  Go  ahead 
and  strike. 

BERTHA  [Advancing~\.  Don't  you  think  I  can 
measure  strength  with  you? 

[Axel  takes  both  her  wrists  in  one  hand,'] 


48  STRINDBERG 

AXEL.  No,  I  don't  think  so.  Are  you  convinced 
now  that  I  am  also  your  physical  superior? 
Bend,  or  I'll  break  you ! 

BERTHA.  Do  you  dare  strike  me? 

AXEL.  Why  not?  I  know  of  only  one  reason 
why  I  should  not  strike  you. 

BERTHA.   What's  that? 

AXEL.  Because  you  are  morally  irresponsible. 

BERTHA   [Trying  to  free  herself].     Let  go! 

AXEL.  When  you  have  begged  for  forgiveness ! 
So,  down  on  your  knees.  [He  forces  her 
down  with  one  hand.]  There,  now  look  up 
to  me,  from  below!  That's  your  place,  that 
you  yourself  have  chosen. 

BERTHA  [Giving  in].  Axel,  Axel,  I  don't  know 
you  any  more.  Are  you  he  who  swore  to 
love  me,  who  begged  to  carry  me,  to  lift  me? 

AXEL.  It  is  I.  I  was  strong  then,  and  believed 
I  had  the  power  to  do  it ;  but  you  sapped 
my  strength  while  my  tired  head  lay  in  your 
lap,  you  sucked  my  best  blood  while  I  slept 
—  and  still  there  was  enough  left  to  subdue 
you.  But  get  up  and  let  us  end  this  declaim- 
ing. We  have  business  to  talk  over !  [Bertha 
rises,  sits  on  couch  and  weeps.]  Why  are 
you  crying? 

BERTHA.  I  don't  know!  Because  I'm  weak, 
perhaps. 

[Bertha's  attitude  and  actions  are  those  of 
complete  surrender.] 

AXEL.  You  see  —  I  was  your  strength.  When 
I  took  what  was  mine,  you  had  nothing  left. 


C  O  Mf  ^A  D  E  S  49 

You  were  a  rubber  ball  that  I  blew  up ;  when 
I  let  go  of  you,  you  fell  together  like  an 
empty  bag. 

BERTHA  [Without  lookiug  wp^.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  are  right  or  not,  but  since  we 
have  quarreled,  my  strength  has  left  me. 
Axel,  will  you  believe  me,  —  I  have  never 
experienced  before  what  I  now  feel  — 

AXEL.   So?     What  do  you  feel,  then.? 

BERTHA.  I  can't  say  it!  I  don't  know  whether 
it  is  —  love,  but  — 

AXEL.  What  do  you  mean  by  love.^^  Isn't  it 
a  quiet  longing  to  eat  me  alive  once  more.^^ 
You  begin  to  love  me!  Why  didn't  you  do 
that  before,  when  I  was  good  to  you.'^  Good- 
ness is  stupidity,  though;  let  us  be  evil! 
Isn't  that  right.? 

BERTHA.  Be  a  little  evil,  rather,  but  don't  be 
weak.  [Rises. ^  Axel,  forgive  me,  but  don't 
desert  me.     Love  me !     Oh,  love  me ! 

AXEL.  It  is  too  late!  Yesterday,  this  morning, 
I  would  have  fallen  before  you  as  you  stand 
there  now,  but  it's  too  late  now. 

BERTHA.  Why  is  it  too  late  now? 

AXEL.  Because  tonight  I  have  broken  all  ties, 
even  the  last. 

BERTHA  [Taking  his  handsl.  What  do  you 
mean? 

AXEL.   I  have  been  untrue  to  you. 

BERTHA   [Falls  in  a  he  a  p'\.    Oh! 

AXEL.   It  was  the  only  way  to  tear  myself  loose. 

BERTHA   [Collecting  herself^.    Who  was  she? 


NDl 


50  S  T  R  I  N  DBi  E  R  G 

AXEL.  A  woman  —  [Pause. '\ 

BERTHA.  How  did  she  look? 

AXEL.  Like  a  woman  !  With  long  hair  and  high 
breasts,  et  cetera.  —  Spare  yourself. 

BERTHA.  Do  you  think  I  am  jealous  of  one  of 
that  kind? 

AXEL.  One  of  that  kind,  two  of  that  kind,  many 
of  that  kind! 

BERTHA  [Gaspingl.  And  tomorrow  our 
friends  are  invited  here!  Do  you  want  to 
create  a  scandal  and  call  in  the  invitations? 

AXEL.  No,  I  don't  want  to  be  mean  in  my  re- 
venge. Tomorrow  we'll  have  our  friends, 
and  the  day  after  our  ways  will  part. 

BERTHA.  Yes,  our  ways  must  part  now.  Good 
night!  [Goes  to  door  left.] 

AXEL   \_Going  to  door  rightl.     Good  night! 

BERTHA   [Stops].     Axel ! 

AXEL.  Yes? 

BERTHA.  Oh,  it  wasn't  anything !  —  Yes,  wait. 
[Goes  toward  Axel  with  clasped  hands.] 
Love  me.  Axel !    Love  me ! 

AXEL.  Would  you  share  with  another? 

BERTHA   [Pause].     If  only  you  loved  me! 

AXEL.  No,  I  cannot.  You  can't  draw  me  to 
you  as  you  used  to  do. 

BERTHA.  Love  me,  be  merciful!  I  am  honest 
now,  I  believe,  otherwise  I  would  never  humil- 
iate myself  as  —  as  I  am  doing  now,  before 
a  man. 

AXEL.  Even    if   I   had   compassion    for   you,   I 


COMRADES  61 

cannot  call  forth  ai  y  love.     It  has  come  to 
an  end.     It  is  dead. 

BERTHA.  I  beg  for  a  man's  love,  I,  a  woman, 
and  he  shoves  me  away  from  him ! 

AXEL.  Why  not?  We  should  also  have  leave 
to  say  no  for  once,  although  we  are  not  al- 
ways very  hard  to  please. 

BERTHA.  A  woman  offers  herself  to  a  man  and 
is  refused ! 

AXEL.  Feel  now  how  millions  have  felt,  when 
they  have  begged  on  their  knees  for  the 
mercy  of  being  allowed  to  give  what  the 
other  accepts.  Feel  it  for  your  whole  sex, 
and  then  tell  them  how  it  felt. 

BERTHA  [^Rising^.  Good  night.  The  day 
after  tomorrow,  then. 

AXEL.  You  still  want  the  party  tomorrow, 
then? 

BERTHA.  Yes,  I  want  the  party  tomorrow. 

AXEL.   Good.     The  day  after  tomorrow,  then. 
[They  go  out,  each  their  own  way  right 
and  left.'\ 

Curtain. 


ACT    IV. 

Scene.  —  Same.  But  the  glass  doors  leading 
to  orchard  are  open.  The  sun  is  still  shining 
outside  and  the  studio  is  brightly  lighted. 
The  side  doors  are  open.  A  serving  table  is 
seen  out  in  the  orchard;  on  it  are  glasses 
and  bottles,  et  cetera.  Axel  wears  cutaway, 
but  without  the  decoration,  and  is  wearing 
a  standing  collar  with  four-in-hand  scarf. 
His  hair  is  brushed  straight  back.  Bertha 
wears  a  dark  gown,  cut  square,  with  frilled 
fichu.  She  has  a  flower  on  the  left  shoulder. 
The  Misses  Hall  are  extravagantly  and  ex- 
pensively dressed.  Bertha  enters  from  or- 
chard. She  is  pale  and  has  dark  shadows 
under  her  eyes.  Abel  enters  from  door  at 
back.     They  embrace  and  kiss  each  other, 

BERTHA.  Good  aftemoon,  and  welcome. 

ABEL.  Good  aftemoon. 

BERTHA.   And  Gaga  promised  to  come? 

ABEL.  Absolutely  certain.  He  was  in  a  regret- 
ful spirit  and  begged  forgiveness.  [Berths 
straightens  out  her  fichu.'\  But  what  is  the 
matter  with  you  today?  Has  anything  hap- 
pened .'' 

BERTHA.    How  SO  .'^     What? 
62 


COMRADES  53 

ABEL.  You  are  not  like  yourself.  Have  you 
—  ?     Bertha!     Have  you  — 

BERTHA.   Don't  talk. 

ABEL.  Your  eyes  are  so  full  of  color  and  bril- 
liancy!  What?  Is  is  possible — ?  And  so 
pale  ?     Bertha ! 

BERTHA.   I  must  go  out  to  my  guests. 

ABEL.   Tell  me,  are  Carl  and  Ostermark  here.'* 

BERTHA.   Both  are  out  in  the  orchard. 

ABEL.  And  Mrs.  Hall  and  the  girls  .^ 

BERTHA.  Mrs.  Hall  will  come  later,  but  the  girls 
are  in  my  room. 

ABEL.  I'm  afraid  that  our  scheme  of  revenge 
will  fall  as  flat  as  a  pancake. 

BERTHA.   No,  not  this  —  not  this  one ! 

[Willmer  enters  with  a  bouquet  of  flowers. 
He  goes  to  Bertha,  kisses  her  hand,  and 
gives  her  the  bouquet. ~\ 

wiLLMER.  Forgive  me !     For  my  love's  sake ! 

BERTHA.  No,  not  ou  that  account,  but  —  it 
doesn't  matter.  I  don't  know  why,  but  to- 
day I  don't  want  any  enemies. 

[Axel  comes  in.  Bertha  and  Willmer  look 
distressed.^ 

AXEL  [To  Bertha,  not  noticing  Willmer^. 
Pardon  —  if  I  disturb  — 

BERTHA.  Not  at  all. 

AXEL.  I  only  wanted  to  ask  if  you  had  ordered 
the  supper.? 

BERTHA.  Yes,  of  course  —  as  you  wished. 

AXEL.  Very    well.      I    only    wanted    to    know. 

[Pause. ^ 


54  STRINDBERG 

ABEL.  How  festive  you  two  look!  \_Bertha  and 
Axel  are  silent.  Willmer  breaks  the  embar- 
rassment by  starting  for  the  orchard.^  Lis- 
ten, Gaga  — 

[She  hastens  out  after  Willmer, ~\ 

AXEL.  What  have  you  ordered  for  the  supper? 

BERTHA  \^Looks  at  him  and  smiles^.  Lobsters 
and  poulet. 

AXEL   \Uncertain~\.     What  are  you  smiling  at? 

BERTHA.  My  thoughts. 

AXEL.  What  are  you  thinking  then? 

BERTHA.  I  am  thinking  —  no,  I  really  don't 
know  —  unless  it  was  about  the  betrothal 
supper  we  had  together  in  the  Gardens  that 
spring  evening  when  you  had  wooed  — 

AXEL.  You  had  wooed  — 

BERTHA.  Axel !  —  And  now  it  is  the  last,  last 
time.     It  was  a  short  summer. 

AXEL.   Quite  short,  but  the  sun  will  come  again. 

BERTHA.  Yes,  for  you  who  can  find  sunshine  in 
every  street. 

AXEL.  What  is  there  to  hinder  you  from  seek- 
ing warmth  at  the  same  fire? 

BERTHA.  And  so  we  shall  meet  again,  perhaps 
—  some  evening  by  street  light,  you  mean  ? 

AXEL.  I  didn't  mean  that  —  but  a  la  bonne 
heure!     That  at  least  will  be  a  free  relation. 

BERTHA.  Yes,  very  free,  especially  for  you. 

AXEL.  For  you,  too,  but  pleasanter  for  me. 

BERTHA.  That's  a  noble  thought. 

AXEL.  Now,    now  —  don't    tear    open    the    old 


COMRADES  55 

wounds !    We  were  talking  about  the  supper. 

And   we  must  not   forget   our  guests.      So! 

[^Goes  toward  his  room  rightil 

BERTHA.  About   the    supper  —  yes,   of   course ! 

That's  what  we  were  talking  about. 

[She  flies  toward  her  room  left,  stirred  and 
agitated.     They  both  go  out.     The  scene 
is  empty  for  a  moment.     Then  the  Misses 
Hall  come  in  from  the  orchard.^ 
Miss  AMELiE.  How  verj  dull  it  is  here! 
MISS    THERESE.  Insufferably    stupid,    and    our 

hosts  are  not  altogether  polite. 
MISS  AMELiE.   The  hostess  is  especially  unpleas- 
ant.    And  the  short-hair  kind,  too. 
MISS   THERESE.  Yes,   but   I   Understand   that   a 

lieutenant  is  coming  — 
MISS  AMELiE.  Well,  that's  good,  for  these  art- 
ists are  a  lot  of  free  traders.     Hush,  here  is 
a    diplomat    surely.  —  He    looks    so    distin- 
guished. 

[They  sit   on   couch.      Doctor  Ostermark 
comes  in  from   the  orchard;    he  discovers 
the  Misses  Hall  and  looks  at  them  through 
his  pince-nez. ~\ 
DR.  OSTERMARK.     I  am  houored,  ladies.     H'm, 
one  meets   so   many   of   one's   countrywomen 
here.     Are  you  artists,  too.?     You  paint,  I 
suppose  ? 
MISS  AMELIE.    No,  we  dou't  paint. 
DR.  OSTERMARK.  Oh,  but  just  a  little,  perhaps. 

Here  in  Paris  all  ladies  paint  —  themselves. 
MISS  THERESE.  We  don't  have  to. 


56  STRINDBERG 

DR.  OSTERMAKTC.   Oh,  Well,  jou  play  then? 

MISS  AMELIE.     k^lsij  ? 

DR.  osTERMARK.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  playing  at 
cards.     But  all  ladles  play  a  little. 

MISS  AMELiE.  Evidently  you  are  just  from  the 
country. 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  Yes,  just  from  the  country. 
Can  I  be  of  any  slight  service  to  you.'' 

MISS  THERESE.  Pardou,  but  we  don't  know  with 
whom  we  have  the  honor  — ? 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  You  ladies  have  evidently  just 
come  from  Stockholm.  In  this  country  we 
can  talk  to  each  other  without  asking  for 
references. 

MISS  AMELiE.  We  haveu't  asked  for  references. 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  What  do  you  ask,  then.?  To 
have  your  curiosity  satisfied  .f'  Well,  I'm  an 
old  family  physician  and  my  name  is  Ander- 
son. Perhaps  I  may  know  your  names  now.? 
—  Character  not  needed. 

MISS  THERESE.  We  are  the  Misses  Hall,  if  that 
can  be  of  any  interest  to  the  doctor. 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  Hall?  H'm !  I've  surely 
heard  that  name  before.  Pardon,  pardon 
me  a  question,  a  somewhat  countrified  ques- 
tion — 

MISS  AMELiE.  —  Dou't  be  bashful ! 

DR.  OSTERMARK.   Is  your  father  still  living? 

MISS  AMELiE.  No,  he  is  dead. 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  Oh,  yes.  Well,  now  that  I 
have  gone  so  far,  there  is  nothing  to  do  but 
continue.     Mr.  Hall  was  — 


COMRADES  57 

MISS  THERESE.  OuF  father  was  a  director  of 
the  Fire  Insurance  Company  of  Goteborg. 

DR.  osTERMARK.  Oh,  wcll,  then  I  beg  your  par- 
don.    Do  you  find  Paris  to  your  hking.'^ 

MISS  AMELiE.  Very !  Therese,  do  you  remember 
what  I  did  with  my  shawl.''  Such  a  cold 
draught  here!  [^Rises.l 

MISS  THERESE.  You  left  it  in  the  orchard,  no 
doubt. 

DR.     OSTERMARK     [i?mW^].        No,    dou't    gO     OUt. 

Allow  me  to  find  it  for  you  —  no  —  sit  still 

—  just  sit  still. 

\_Goes  out  into  orchard.     After  a  moment 
Mrs.  Hall  comes  in  from  left,  quite  com- 
fortable with  drink;    her  cheeks  are  flam- 
ing red  and  her  voice  is  uncertain.~\ 
MISS   AMELiE.  Look,    there's   mother!      And    in 

that   condition    again !      Heavens,   why   does 

she   come   here.''     Why   did  you   come   here, 

mother '? 
MRS.  HALL.  Keep  quiet!     I  have  as  much  right 

here  as  you. 
MISS    THERESE.  Whj   have   you    been    drinking 

again.''     Think  if  some  one  should  come! 
MRS.    HALL.   I    haven't   been    drinking.      What 

nonsense ! 
MISS  AMELIE.  We  will  be  ruined  if  the  doctor 

should  come  back  and  see  you.     Come,  let's 

go  in  here  and  you  can  get  a  glass  of  water. 
MRS.  HALL.   It's    uice    of    you    to    treat    your 

mother  like  this  and  say  that  she  has  been 


^ 


58  STRINDBERG 

drinking,  to  say  such  a  thing  to  your  own 
mother ! 

MISS  THERESE.  Dou't  talk,  but  go  in,  immedi- 
ately. 

[They  lead  hH  in  right.     Axel  and  Carl 
come  in  from  the  orchard.^ 

CARL.  Well,  you're  looking  fine,  my  dear  Axel, 
and  you  have  a  manlier  bearing  than  you 
used  to  have. 

AXEL.  Yes,  I  have  emancipated  myself. 

CARL.  You  should  have  done  that  at  the  start, 
as  I  did. 

AXEL.  As  you  did? 

CARL.  As  I  did.  Immediately  I  took  my  posi- 
tion as  head  of  the  family,  to  which  place  I 
found  myself  called  both  because  of  my  supe- 
rior mind  and  my  natural  abilities. 

AXEL.  And  how  did  your  wife  like  that.'^ 

CARL.  Do  you  know,  I  forgot  to  ask  her !  But 
to  judge  by  appearances,  I  should  say  that 
she  found  things  as  they  should  be.  They 
only  need  real  men  —  and  human  beings  can 
be  made  even  out  of  women. 

4xEL.  But  at  least  the  power  should  be  divided? 

CARL.  Power  cannot  be  divided!  Either  obey 
or  command.  Either  you  or  I.  I  preferred 
myself  to  her,  and  she  had  to  adjust  herself 
to  it. 

AXEL.  Yes,  but  didn't  she  have  money? 

CARL.  Not  at  all.  She  didn't  bring  more  than 
a  silver  soup-spoon  to  our  nest.  But  she  de- 
manded an  accounting  of  it ;   and  she  got  it. 


COMRADES  59 

She  was  a  woman  of  principle,  you  see !  — 
She  is  so  good,  so  good,  but  so  am  I  good 
to  her.  I  think  it's  really  great  sport  to  be 
married,  what?  And  besides,  she's  such  a 
splendid  cook! 

[The  Misses  Hall  come  in  from  right.] 

AXEL.  Let  me  introduce  you  to  the  Misses  Hall, 
Lieutenant  Starck. 

CARL.  I  am  very  happy  to  make  your  \_Carl 
gives  them  a  look  of  recognition]  acquaint- 
ance. 

\_The  young  ladies  seem  surprised  and  em- 
barrassed; they  nod  and  go  out  to  the 
orchard  somewhat  excited.] 

CARL.  How  did  they  get  in  here.'^ 

AXEL.  What  do  you  mean?  They  are  friends 
of  my  wife's  and  this  is  the  first  time  that 
they  have  been  here.     Do  you  know  them? 

CARL.  Yes,  somewhat! 

AXEL.  What  do  you  mean  to  imply? 

CARL.  H'm,  I  met  them  in  St.  Petersburg  — 
late  one  night ! 

AXEL.  Late  one  night? 

CARL.  Yes. 

AXEL.  Isn't  there  some  mistake? 

CARL.  No-o !  There  is  no  mistake.  They  were 
very  well  known  ladies  in  St.  Petersburg. 

AXEL.  And  Bertha  allows  that  kind  in  my 
house ! 

[^Bertha  comes  rushing  in  from  orchard.] 

BERTHA.  What  does  this  mean?  Have  you  in- 
sulted the  young  ladies? 


60  STRINDBERG 

AXEL.  No  —  but  — 

BERTHA.  They  came  out  of  here  crying  and 
declared  that  they  couldn't  stay  in  the  com- 
pany of  you  gentlemen  any  longer!  What 
has  happened? 

AXEL.   Do  you  know  these  young  ladies? 

BERTHA.  They  are  my  friends !  Isn't  that 
enough? 

AXEL.  Not  quite  enough. 

BERTHA.  Not  quite?     Well,  but  if  — 

[Dr.    dstermark    comes    in    from    the    or- 
chard.^ 

DR.  osTERMARK.  What  docs  this  mean?  What 
have  you  done  to  the  little  girls  who  ran 
away?  I  offered  to  help  them  with  their 
wraps,  but  they  refused  to  be  helped  and 
had  tears  in  their  eyes. 

CARL  [To  Bertha^.  I  must  ask  you,  are  they 
your  friends? 

BERTHA.  Yes,  they  are!  But  if  my  protection 
is  not  sufficient,  then  perhaps  Doctor  Oster- 
mark  will  take  them  under  his  wing,  consid- 
ering that  he  has  a  certain  claim  to  them. 

CARL.  But  a  mistake  has  been  made  here.  You 
mean  that  I,  who  have  had  certain  relations 
with  these  girls,  should  appear  as  their  cava- 
lier ? 

BERTHA.  What  sort  of  relations? 

CARL.  Chance,  such  as  one  has  with  such 
women ! 

BERTHA.   Such  women  ?    That's  a  lie  I 

CARL.  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  lying. 


COMRADES  61 

DR.  osTERMARK.  But  I  don't  Understand  what  I 
have  got  to  do  with  these  young  ladies. 

BERTHA.  You  would  prefer  to  have  nothing  to 
do  with  your  deserted  children. 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  My  children!  But  I  don't 
understand. 

BERTHA.  They  are  your  two  daughters  — 
daughters  of  your  divorced  wife. 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  Siuce  you  Consider  that  you 
have  the  right  to  be  personal  and  make  my 
affairs  the  subject  of  public  discussion,  I 
will  answer  you  publicly.  You  seem  to  have 
taken  the  trouble  to  find  out  that  I  am  not 
a  widower.  Good !  My  marriage,  which  was 
childless,  was  dissolved  twenty  years  ago. 
Since  then  I  have  entered  into  another  rela- 
tion, and  we  have  a  child  that  is  just  five 
years  old.  These  grown  girls,  therefore, 
cannot  be  my  children.  Now  you  know  the 
whole  matter. 

BERTHA.  But  your  wife  —  whom  you  threw 
out  upon  the  world  — 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  —  No,  that  wasu't  the  case 
either.  She  walked  out,  or  staggered,  if  you 
prefer  it,  and  then  she  received  half  my  in- 
come until  at  last  I  found  out  that  —  enough 
said.  If  you  could  conceive  what  it  cost  me 
of  work  and  self-denial  to  support  two  estab- 
lishments, you  would  have  spared  me  this 
unpleasant  moment,  but  your  kind  wouldn't 
consider    anything    like    that.      You   needn't 


62  STRINDBERG 

know  any  more,  as  it  really  doesn't  concern 
you. 

BERTHA.  But  it  would  amuse  me  to  know  why 
your  first  wife  left  you. 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  I  dou't  think  it  would  amuse 
you  to  know  that  she  was  ugly,  narrow, 
paltry,  and  that  I  was  too  good  for  her! 
Think  now,  you  tender-hearted,  sensitive  Ber- 
tha, think  if  they  really  had  been  my  daugh- 
ters, these  friends  of  yours  and  Carl's ;  imag- 
ine how  my  old  heart  would  have  been  glad- 
dened to  see,  after  eighteen  years,  these  chil- 
dren that  I  had  borne  in  my  arms  during  the 
long  night  of  illness.  And  imagine  if  she, 
my  first  love,  my  wife,  with  whom  life  the 
first  time  became  life,  had  accepted  your 
invitation  and  come  here.'*  What  a  fifth  act 
in  the  melodrama  you  wished  to  offer  us, 
what  a  noble  revenge  on  one  who  is  guiltless! 
Thanks,  old  friend.  Thank  you  for  your 
reward  for  the  friendship  I  have  shown  you. 

BERTHA.  Reward !     Yes,  I  know  that  I  owe  you 

—  a  fee.      [Accel,  Carl  and  the  doctor  make 

protestations   of  "  OW  "  Now,''  "  Really,'' 

et  cetera.']     I  know  that,  I  know  it  very  well. 

[Axel,  Carl  and  doctor  say  "  No,"  "  Fie," 

"  This  is  going  too  far."] 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  No,  but  I'm  goiug  to  get  out 
of  here.  Horrors !  Yes,  you  are  the  right 
sort !     Pardon  me,  Axel,  but  I  can't  help  it ! 

BERTHA  [To  Axel].  You're  a  fine  man,  to 
allow  your  wife  to  be  insulted ! 


COMRADES  63 

AXEL.   I  can  understand  neither  your  allowing 

yourself  to  insult,  or  to  be  insulted !     \_Music 

is  heard  from  the  orchard;    guitar  and  an 

Italian    song.Ji      The    singers    have    arrived ; 

perhaps  you  would  all  like  to  step  out  and 

have  a  bit   of  harmony  on   top   of  all  this. 

\_The7/  all  go  out  exc€pt  the  doctor,  who 

goes  over  to  look  at  some  drawings  on  wall 

right    near    door    to    AxeVs    room.      The 

music  outside  is  played  softly.     Mrs.  Hall 

comes  in  and  walks  unsteadily  across  the 

scene  and  sits  in  a  chair.     The  doctor,  who 

does  not  recognize  her,  hows  deeply.^ 

MRS.  HALL.  What  music  is  that  out  there  .^ 

DR.   osTERMARK.  They  are  some  Italians,  dear 

lady. 
MRS.  HALL.  Yes?     No  doubt  the  ones  I  heard 

at  Monte  Carlo. 
DR.    OSTERMARK.  Oh,   perhaps    there   are    other 

Italians. 
MRS.  HALL.  Well,  I  believe  it's  none  other  than 
Ostermark!  No  one  could  be  as  quick  as 
he  in  his  retorts. 
DR.  OSTERMARK  [Starcs  at  her^ .  Ah  —  think 
—  there  are  things  —  that  —  are  less  dread- 
ful than  dread!  It  is  you,  Carohna!  And 
this  is  the  moment  that  for  eighteen  years 
I  have  been  running  away  from,  dreamed 
about,  sought,  feared,  wished  for;  wished 
for  that  I  might  receive  the  shock  and  after- 
ward have  nothing  to  dread!  \_He  takes  out 
a  vial  and  wets   his  upper  lip   with  a   few 


64  STRINDBERG 

drops.]  Don't  be  afraid;  it's  not  poison, 
in  such  little  doses.  It's  for  the  heart,  you 
see. 

MRS.  HALL.  Ugh,  your  heart!  Yes,  you  have 
so  much! 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  It's  strange  that  two  people 
cannot  meet  once  every  eighteen  years  with- 
out quarreling. 

MRS.  HALL.  It  was  always  you  who  quarreled! 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  Alonc?  What!  —  Shall  we 
stop  now?  —  I  must  try  to  look  at  you. 
[He  takes  a  chair  and  sits  down  opposite 
Mrs.  Hall.~\     Without  trembling! 

MRS.  HALL.    I've  become  old  ! 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  That's  what  happens ;  one  has 
read  about  it,  seen  it,  felt  it  one's  self,  but 
nevertheless  it  is  horrifying.     I  am  old,  too. 

MRS.  HALL.  Are  you  happy  in  your  new  life.'^ 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  To  tell  the  truth,  it's  one  and 
the  same  thing ;   different,  but  quite  the  same. 

MRS.  HALL.  Perhaps  the  old  life  was  better, 
then? 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  No,  it  wasu't  better,  as  it  was 
about  the  same,  but  it's  a  question  if  it 
wouldn't  have  seemed  better  now,  just  be- 
cause it  was  the  old  life.  One  doesn't  blos- 
som but  once,  and  then  one  goes  to  seed; 
what  comes  afterward  is  only  a  little  after- 
math.    And  you,  how  are  you  getting  along? 

MRS.  HALL   [Offended].     What  do  you  mean? 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  Dou't  misuudcrstaud  me.  Are 
you  contented  with  —  your  —  lot  ?     I  mean 


COMRADES  65 

—  oh,  that  it  should  be  so  difficult  to  make 
one's  self  understood  by  women ! 

MRS.  HALL.   Contented?     H'm! 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  Well,  jou  Were  never  con- 
tented. But  when  one  is  young,  one  always 
demands  the  first  class,  and  then  one  gets  the 
third  class  when  one  is  old.  Now,  I  under- 
stand that  you  told  Mrs.  Alberg  here  that 
your  girls  are  my  children ! 

MRS.  HALL.   I  did.?     That  is  a  lie. 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  Still  uutruthful,  eh?  In  the 
old  days,  when  I  was  foolish,  I  looked  upon 
J^ing  as  a  vice ;  but  now  I  know  it  to  be  a 
iiatural_defect.  You  actually  believe  in  your 
lies,  and  that  is  dangerous.  But  never  mind 
about  that  now.  Are  you  leaving,  or  do 
you  wish  me  to  leave? 

MRS.  HALL    lRising'\.     I  will  go. 

\_She  falls  back  into  the  chair  and  gropes 
about. ~\ 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  What,  druuk  too?  —  I  really 
pity  you.  Oh,  this  is  most  unpleasant !  Dear 
me,  I  believe  I'm  ready  to  cry !  —  Carolina ! 
No,  I  can't  bear  this ! 

MRS.  HALL.   I  am  ill. 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  Ycs^  thalL'S-- AaL-lmppono  whcn- 
one  drinks  too  much.  -  But  this  is  more  bitter 
than  I  ever  thought  it  could  be.  I  have  killed 
little  unborn  children  to  be  able  to  save  the 
mother,  and  I  have  felt  them  tremble  in  their 
fight  against  death.  I  have  cut  living  mus- 
cles, and  have  seen  the  marrow  flow  like  but- 


66  STRINDBERG 

ter  from  healthy  bones,  but  never  has  any- 
thing hurt  me  so  much  as  this  since  the  day 
you  left  me.  Then  it  was  as  if  you  had  gone 
away  with  one  of  my  lungs,  so  I  could  only 
gasp  with  the  other!  —  Oh,  I  feel  as  if  I 
were  suffocating  now! 

MRS.  HALL.  Help  me  out  of  here.  It's  too 
noisy.  I  don't  know  why  we  came  here,  any- 
way.    Give  me  your  hand. 

DR.  osTERMARK  [Leading  her  to  door^.  Before 
it  was  I  who  asked  for  your  hand;  and  it 
rested  so  heavily  on  me,  the  little  delicate 
hand!  Once  it  struck  my  face,  the  little  deli- 
cate hand,  but  I  kissed  it  nevertheless.  —  Oh, 
now  it  is  withered,  and  will  never  strike 
again.  —  Ah,  dolce  Napoli !  Joy  of  life, 
what  became  of  it.^^  You  who  were  the  bride 
of  my  youth ! 

MRS.  HALL  [In  the  hall  door'\.  Where  is  my 
wrap  ? 

DR.  OSTERMARK  [Closiug  doov'].  In  the  hall, 
probably.  This  is  horrible  I  [Lights  a 
cigar^ .  Oh,  dolce  Napoli !  I  wonder  if  it 
is  as  delightful  as  it's  said  to  be  in  that 
cholera-breeding  fishing  harbor.  Blague,  no 
doubt!  Blague!  Blague!  Naples  —  bridal 
couples,  love,  joy  of  life,  antiquities,  mod- 
ernity, liberalism,  conservatism,  idealism,  real- 
ism, naturalism,  —  blague,  blague,  the  whole 
thing ! 

[Axel,    Abel,    WUlmer,   Mrs.    Starck    and 
Bertha  come  in  from  orchard.^ 


COMRADES  67 

MRS.  STARCK.  What  is  happening  to  the  doc- 
tor? 

DR.  osTERMARK.  Pardon,  it  was  only  a  little 
qui  pro  quo.  Two  strangers  sneaked  in  here 
and  we  had  to  identify  them. 

MRS.  STARCK.  The  girls? 

CARL.  Well,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  you. 
I  don't  know  why,  but  I  seem  to  feel  "  the 
enemy  in  the  air." 

MRS.  STARCK.  Ah,  you're  always  seeing  the 
enemy,  you  dear  Carl. 

CARL.  No,  I  don't  see  them,  but  I  feel  them. 

MRS.  STARCK.  Well,  come  to  your  friend,  then, 
and  she  will  defend  you. 

CARL.  Oh,  you're  always  so  good  to  me. 

MRS.  STARCK.  Why  shouldn't  I  be,  when  you 
are  so  good  to  me? 

l^The  door  at  back  is  opened  and  the  maid 
and  two  men  come  in  carrying  a  picture.^ 

AXEL.  What's  this? 

MAID.  The  porter  said  that  it  must  be  carried 
iinto  the  studio,  as  he  didn't  have  any  room 
for  it. 

AXEL.  What  foolishness  is  this?     Take  it  out. 

MAID.   The  mistress  sent  for  the  picture  herself. 

BERTHA.  That's  not  true.  For  that  matter, 
it's  not  my  picture,  anyway.  It's  your  mas- 
ter's. Put  it  down  there.  [The  maid  and  the 
man  go  out.^  Perhaps  it  isn't  yours.  Axel? 
let's  see.  [Axel  places  himself  in  front  of 
picture.^     Move  a  little  so  we  can  see. 

AXEL   [Gives  'way~\.     It's  a  mistake. 


68  STRINDBERG 

BEETHA   \_Shrieks'\.      What!      What    is    this! 

It's   a  mistake!     What   does  it  mean?      It's 

my  picture,  but  it's  Axel's  number!     Oh! 

\_She  falls  in  a   faint.      The  doctor   and 

Carl   carry   her   into   her   room   left,    the 

women  follow. '\ 

ABEL.   She  is  dying! 

MRS.  STARCK.  Heaveu  help  us,  what  is  this! 
The  poor  little  dear !  Doctor  Ostermark,  do 
something,  say  something  —  and  Axel  stands 
there  crestfallen. 

\_Axel  and  Willmer  are  alone, 1 

AXEL.  This  is  your  doing. 

WILLMER.  My  doing  .^^ 

\^Axel  takes  him  hy  the  ear.'\ 

AXEL.  Yes,  yours,  but  not  altogether.  But  I 
am  going  to  give  you  your  share.  [^He 
leads  him  to  the  door,  which  he  opens  with 
one  foot,  and  kicks  out  Willmer  with  the 
other. ~\     Out  with  3^ou! 

WILLMER.  I'll  get  even  for  this! 

AXEL.  I  shall  be  waiting  for  it ! 

[Doctor  and  Carl  come  m.] 

DR.  OSTERMARK.  What's  the  trouble  with  the 
picture,  anyway? 

AXEL.  Nothing  —  only  that  it  seemed  to  rep- 
resent sulphuric  acid. 

CARL.  Now  tell  us,  are  you  refused,  or  is  she? 

AXEL.  I  am  refused  on  her  picture.  I  wanted 
to  help  her  a  bit,  as  a  good  comrade,  and 
that's  why  I  changed  the  numbers. 

DU.   OSTERMARK.  Ycs,   but   there   is   something 


COMRADES  69 

else  too.     She  says  that  you  don't  love  her 

any  more. 
AXEL.   She  is  right  in  that.     That's  how  it  is, 

and  tomorrow  we  part. 
DR.  OSTERMARK  and  CARL.  Part? 
AXEL.  Yes,    when    there    are    no    ties    to    bind 

things,    they    loosen    of    themselves.       This 

wasn't   a   marriage;    it   was   only  living  to- 
gether, or  something  even  worse. 
DR.  OSTERMARK.  There  is  bad  air  here.     Come, 

let's  go. 
AXEL.  Yes,  I  want  to  get  out  —  out  of  here. 
[They  start  for  the  door.    Abel  comes  in.'\ 
ABEL.  What,  are  you  leaving.'^ 
AXEL.  Does  that  astonish  you.^^ 
ABEL.  Let  me  have  a  word  with  you.  * 

AXEL.  Go  on. 

ABEL.  Don't  you  want  to  go  in  and  see  Bertha.? 
AXEL.    No ! 

ABEL.  What  have  you  done  to  her.^^ 
AXEL.   I  have  bent  her. 
ABEL.  I  noticed  that  —  she  is  black  and  blue 

around  the  wrists !     Look  at  me !     I  didn't 

think  that  of  you.     Well,  conqueror,  triumph 

now ! 
AXEL.  It's  an  uncertain  conquest,  and  I  don't 

even  wish  for  it. 
ABEL.  Are  you  sure  of  that.''     \_She  leans  over 

to  Axel,  in  low  voice. ^     Bertha  loves  you  now 

—  now  that  you  have  bent  her. 
AXEL.  I   know   it.      But   I   don't   love   her  any 

longer. 


70  STRINDBERG 

ABEL.  Won't  you  go  in  and  see  her? 

AXEL.  No,  it's  all  over.  \_Takes  doctor*s  armS\ 
Come! 

ABEL.  May  I  take  a  message  to  Bertha? 

AXEL.  No !  Yes !  Tell  her,  that  I  despise  and 
abhor  her. 

ABEL.  Good-bye,  my  friend. 

AXEL.   Good-bye,  my  enemy. 

ABEL.  Enemy? 

AXEL.  Are  you  my  friend? 

ABEL.  I  don't  know.  Both  and  neither.  I  am 
a  bastard  — 

AXEL.  We  are  all  that,  as  we  are  crocheted  out 
of  man  and  woman !  Perhaps  you  have  loved 
me  in  your  way,  as  you  wanted  to  separate 
Bertha  and  me. 

ABEL  [Rolling  a  cigarette^.  Loved!  I  won- 
der how  it  seems  to  love?  No,  I  cannot  love; 
I  must  be  deformed  —  for  it  made  me  happy 
to  see  you  two  until  the  envy  of  deformity 
set  me  on  fire.     Perhaps  you  love  me? 

AXEL.  No,  on  my  honor!  You  have  been  an 
agreeable  comrade  who  happened  to  be 
dressed  like  a  woman ;  you  have  never  im- 
pressed me  as  belonging  to  another  sex ; 
and  love,  you  see,  can  and  should  exist  only 
between  individuals  of  opposite  sexes  — 

ABEL.   Sex  love,  yes ! 

AXEL.  Is  there  any  other,  then? 

ABEL.  I  don't  know!  But  I  am  to  be  pitied. 
And  this  hate,  this  terrible  hate!  Perhaps 
that  would  disappear  if  you  men  were  not 


COMRADES  71 

so  afraid  to  love  us,  if  you  were  not  so  — 
how  shall  I  express  it  —  so  moral,  as  it's 
called. 

AXEL.  But  in  heaven's  name,  be  a  little  more 
lovable,  then,  and  don't  get  yourselves  up  so 
that  one  is  forced  to  think  of  the  penal  law 
whenever  one  looks  at  you. 

ABEL.  Do  you  think  I'm  such  a  fright,  then.'' 

AXEL.  Well,  you  know,  you  must  pardon  me, 
but  you  are  awful.  [Bertha  comes  inJ\ 

BERTHA   [To  Axel'\.     Are  you  going.'' 

AXEL.  Yes,  I  was  just  about  to  go,  but  now  I'll 
stay. 

BERTHA   [Softlyl.     What.?     You  — 

AXEL.  I  shall  stay  in  my  home. 

BERTHA.  In  our  —  home. 

AXEL.  No,  in  mine.  In  my  studio  with  my  fur- 
niture. 

BERTHA.  And  I.'' 

AXEL.  You  may  do  what  you  please,  but  you 
must  know  what  you  risk.  You  see  in  my 
suit  I  have  applied  for  one  year's  separation 
in  bed  and  board.  Should  you  stay,  that  is 
to  say,  if  you  should  seek  me  during  this 
time,  you  would  have  to  choose  between  im- 
prisonment, or  being  considered  my  mistress. 
Do  you  feel  like  staying? 

BERTHA.  Oh,  is  that  the  law? 

AXEL.  That's  the  law. 

BERTHA.  You  drive  me  out,  then? 

AXEL.   No,  but  the  law  does. 


72  STRINDBERG 

BERTHA.  And  you  think  I'll  be  satisfied  with 
that? 

AXEL.  No,  I  don't,  for  you  won't  be  satisfied 
until  you  have  taken  all  the  life  out  of  me. 

BERTHA.  Axel!  How  you  talk!  If  you  knew 
how  I  —  love  you ! 

AXEL.  That  doesn't  sound  irrational,  but  I 
don't  love  you. 

BERTHA  [Flaring  up  and  pointing  to  Ahel^. 
Because  you  love  her! 

AXEL.  No,  indeed,  I  don't.  Have  never  loved 
her,  and  never  will.  What  Incredible  imag- 
ining! As  if  there  were  not  other  women 
and  more  fascinating  than  you  two ! 

BERTHA.  But  Abel  loves  you! 

AXEL.  That  Is  possible.  I  even  believe  that  she 
suggested  something  of  the  kind.  Yes,  she 
said  so  distinctly ;    let's  see,  how  was  It  — 

BERTHA  [Changing].  You  are  really  the  most 
shameless  creature  I  have  ever  met ! 

AXEL.  Yes,  I  can  well  believe  that. 

BERTHA  [Puts  on  her  hat  and  wrap'\.  Now 
you  expect  to  put  me  out  on  the  street? 
That  is  final? 

AXEL.   On  the  street,  or  where  you  please. 

BERTHA  [Angry].  Do  you  think  a  woman  will 
allow  herself  to  be  treated  like  this? 

AXEL.  Once  you  asked  me  to  forget  that  you 
were  a  woman.  Very  well,  I  have  forgot- 
ten It. 

BERTHA.  But  do  you  know  that  you  have  lia- 
bilities to  the  one  who  has  been  your  wife? 


COMRADES  73 

AXEL.  You  mean  the  pay  for  good  comrade- 
ship?    What?     A  life  annuity! 

BERTHA.  Yes. 

AXEL  IPutting  a  few  bills  on  the  tahle~\.  Here 
is  a  month  in  advance. 

BERTHA  [^Takes  money  and  counts  i^].  You 
still  have  a  little  honor  left ! 

ABEL.  Good-bye,  Bertha.     Now  I  am  off. 

BERTHA.  Wait  and  you  can  go  along  with  me. 

ABEL.  No,  I  won't  go  any  further  with  you. 

BERTHA.   What?     Why  not? 

ABEL.   I  am  ashamed  to. 

BERTHA   \^Astonished'\.     Ashamed? 

ABEL.  Yes,  ashamed.     Good-bye. 

\_Abel  goes  out. J 

BERTHA.  I  don't  understand.  Good-bye,  Axel! 
Thanks  for  the  money.     Are  we  friends? 

[Taking  his  hand.'\ 

AXEL.  I  am  not,  at  least.  —  Let  go  of  my  hand, 
or  I  will  believe  that  you  wish  to  seduce  me 
again.  \^Bertha  goes  toward  door.^ 

AXEL  [^With  a  sigh  of  relief^.  Pleasant  com- 
rades !    Oh ! 

[The  maid  enters  from  the  orchard.'] 

MAID  [To  Accel].  There  is  a  lady  waiting  for 
you. 

AXEL.  I'll  soon  be  free. 

BERTHA.  Is  that  the  new  comrade? 

AXEL.   No,  not  comrade,  but  sweetheart. 

BERTHA.  And  your  wife  to  be? 

AXEL.  Perhaps.      Because  I  want  to  meet   my 


74  STRINDBERG 

comrades  at  the  cafe,  but  at  home  I  want  a 
wife.     \_Starts  as  if  to  go.~\     Pardon  me! 

BERTHA.  Farewell,  then !  Are  we  never  to  meet 
again  ? 

AXEL.  Yes,  of  course !  But  at  the  cafe.  Good- 
bye! 

CUETAIN. 


FACING    DEATH    . 
One-Act  Play 


CHARACTERS 

MONSIEUR  DURAND,  a  pension  proprietor, 
formerly  connected  with  the  state  railroad 
ADELE,  his  daughter,  twenty-seven 
ANNETTE,  his  daughter,  twenty-four 
THERESE,  his  daughter,  twenty-four 
ANTONIO,  a  lieutenant  in  an  Italian  cavalry 
regiment    in    French    Switzerland    in    the 
eighties 
PIERRE,  an  errand  boy 


FACING    DEATH 

Scene  —  A  dining-room  with  a  long  table. 
Through  the  open  door  is  seen,  over  the  tops 
of  churchyard  cypress  trees.  Lake  Leman, 
with  the  Savoy  Alps  and  the  French  bathing- 
resort  Evian.  To  left  is  a  door  to  the  kitchen. 
To  right  a  door  to  inner  rooms.  Monsieur 
Durand  stands  in  doorway  looking  over  the 
lake  with  a  pair  of  field  glasses. 

ADELE   Incomes  in  from  kitchen  wearing  apron 

and  turned-up   sleeves.     She  carries  a   tray 

with  coffee  things].     Haven't  you  been  for 

the  coffee-bread,  father? 
DURAND.   No,  I  sent  Pierre.     My  chest  has  been 

bad  for  the  last  few  days,  and  it  affects  me 

to  walk  the  steep  hill. 
ADELE.  Pierre    again,    eh.^*      That    costs    three 

sous.     Where  are  they  to   come  from,  with 

only  one  tourist  in  the  house  for  over  two 

months  ? 
DURAND.  That's  true  enough,  but  it  seems  to  me 

Annette  might  get  the  bread. 
ADELE.   That  would  ruin  the  credit  of  the  house 

entirely,  but  you  have  never  done  anything 

else. 
DURAND.  Even  you,  Adele? 
1 


2  STRINDBERG 

ADELE.  Even  I  am  tired,  though  I  have  held 
out  longest! 

DURAND.  Yes,  you  have,  and  you  were  still 
human  when  Therese  and  Annette  cautioned 
me.  You  and  I  have  pulled  this  house 
through  since  mother  died.  You  have  had 
to  sit  in  the  kitchen  like  Cinderella;  I  have 
had  to  take  care  of  the  service,  the  fires, 
sweep  and  clean,  and  do  the  errands.  You 
are  tired ;   how  should  it  be  with  me,  then  ? 

ADELE.  But  you  mustn't  be  tired.  You  have 
three  daughters  who  are  unprovided  for  and 
whose  dowry  you  have  wasted. 

DURAND  \_Listening  without~\.  Doesn't  it  seem 
as  if  you  heard  the  sound  of  clanging  and 
rumbling  down  toward  Cully.?  If  fire  has 
broken  out  they  are  lost,  because  the  wind 
is  going  to  blow  soon,  the  lake  tells  me  that. 

ADELE.  Have  you  paid  the  fire  insurance  on 
our  house? 

DURAND.  Yes,  I  have.  Otherwise  I  would  never 
have  got  that  last  mortgage. 

ADELE.  How  much  is  there  left  unmortgaged? 

DURAND.  A  fifth  of  the  fire  insurance  policy. 
But  you  know  how  property  dropped  in  value 
when  the  railroad  passed  our  gates  and  went 
to  the  east  instead. 

ADELE.   So  much  the  better. 

DURAND  [Sternly'\.  Adele!  [Pause.]  Will 
you  put  out  the  fire  in  the  stove? 

ADELE.  Impossible.  I  can't  till  the  coffee- 
bread  comes. 


FACING     DEATH  3 

DURAND.  Well,  here  it  is. 

[Pierre  comes  in  with  basket.    Adele  looks 
in  the  basket. ~\ 

ADELE.  No  bread !     But  a  bill  —  two,  three  — 

PIERRE.  —  Well,  the  baker  said  he  wouldn't  send 
any  more  bread  until  he  was  paid.  And  then, 
when  I  was  going  by  the  butcher's  and  the 
grocer's,  they  shoved  these  bills  at  me. 

[Goes  out.^ 

ADELE.  Oh,  God  in  heaven,  this  is  the  end  for 
us!    But  what's  this .?         [Opens  a  package.'l 

DURAND.  Some  candles  that  I  bought  for  the 
mass  for  my  dear  little  Rene.  Today  is  the 
anniversary  of  his  death. 

ADELE.  You  can  afford  to  buy  such  things ! 

DURAND.  With  my  tips,  yes.  Don't  you  think 
it  is  humiliating  to  stretch  out  my  hand 
whenever  a  traveller  leaves  us.''  Can't  you 
grant  me  the  only  contentment  I  possess  — 
let  me  enjoy  my  sorrow  one  time  each  year? 
To  be  able  to  live  in  memory  of  the  most 
beautiful  thing  life  ever  gave  me.'' 

ADELE.  If  he  had  only  lived  until  now,  you'd 
see  how  beautiful  he'd  be ! 

DURAND.  It's  very  possible  that  there's  truth 
in  your  irony  —  as  I  remember  him,  how- 
ever, he  was  not  as  you  all  are  now. 

ADELE.  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  receive 
Monsieur  Antonio  yourself.''  He  is  coming 
now  to  have  his  coffee  without  bread!  Oh, 
if  mother  were  only  living!  She  always 
found  a  way  when  you  stood  helpless. 


4  STRINDBERG 

DURAND.  Your  mother  had  her  good  quahties. 

ADELE.  Although  you  saw  only  her  faults. 

DURAND.  Monsieur  Antonio  is  coming.  If  you 
leave  me  now,  I'll  have  a  talk  with  him. 

ADELE.  You  would  do  better  to  go  out  and  bor- 
row some  money,  so  that  the  scandal  would 
be  averted. 

DURAND.  I  can't  borrow  a  sou.  After  borrow- 
ing for  ten  years !  Let  everything  crash  at 
once,  everything,  everything,  if  it  would  only 
be  the  end' 

ADELE.  The  end  for  you,  yes.  But  you  never 
think  of  us ! 

DURAND.  No,  I  have  never  thought  of  you, 
never ! 

ADELE.  Do  you  begrudge  us  our  bringing-up? 

DURAND.  I  am  only  answering  an  unjust  re- 
proach. Go  now,  and  I'll  meet  the  storm  — 
as  usual. 

ADELE.  As  usual  —  h'm ! 

^Goes.    Antonio  comes  in  from  back.'] 

ANTONIO.  Good  morning,  Monsieur  Durand. 

DURAND.  Monsieur  Lieutenant  has  already  been 
out  for  a  walk.f^ 

ANTONIO.  Yes,  I've  been  down  toward  Cully 
and  saw  them  put  out  a  chimney  fire.  Now, 
some  coffee  will  taste  particularly  good. 

DURAND.  It's  needless  to  say  how  it  pains  me 
to  have  to  tell  you  that  on  account  of  insuf- 
ficient supplies  our  house  can  no  longer  con- 
tinue to  do  business. 

ANTONIO.  How  is  that? 


FACING     DEATH  6 

DURAND.  To  speak  plainly,  we  are  bankrupt. 

ANTONIO.  But,  my  good  Monsieur  Durand,  is 
there  no  way  of  helping  you  out  of  what  I 
hope  is  just  a  temporary  embarrassment? 

DUEAND.  No,  there  is  no  possible  way  out.  The 
condition  of  the  house  has  been  so  completely 
undermined  for  many  years  that  I  had  rather 
the  crash  would  come  than  live  in  a  state  of 
anxiety  day  and  night  expecting  what  must 
come. 

ANTONIO.  Nevertheless  I  believe  you  are  look- 
ing at  the  dark  side  of  things. 

DURAND.  I  can't  see  what  makes  you  doubt  my 
statement. 

ANTONIO.  Because  I  want  to  help  you. 

DURAND.  I  don't  wish  any  help.  Privation 
must  come  and  teach  my  children  to  lead  a 
different  life  from  this  which  is  all  play. 
With  the  exception  of  Adele,  who  really  does 
take  care  of  the  kitchen,  what  do  the  others 
do.f^  Play,  and  sing,  and  promenade,  and 
flirt ;  and  as  long  as  there  is  a  crust  of  bread 
in  the  house,  they'll  never  do  anything  useful. 

ANTONIO.  Granting  that,  but  until  the  finances 
are  straightened  out  we  must  have  bread  in 
the  house.  Allow  me  to  stay  a  month  longer 
and  I  will  pay  my  bill  in  advance. 

DURAND.  No,  thank  you,  we  must  stick  to  this 
course  even  if  it  leads  us  into  the  lake!  And 
I  don't  want  to  continue  in  this  business, 
which  doesn't  bring  bread  —  nothing  but 
humiliations.      Just    think    how    it    was    last 


6  STRINDBERG 

spring,  when  the  house  had  been  empty  for 
three  months.  Then  at  last  an  American 
family  came  and  saved  us.  The  morning 
after  their  arrival  I  ran  across  the  son  catch- 
ing hold  of  my  daughter  on  the  stairs.  It 
was  Therese,  —  he  was  trying  to  kiss  her. 
What  would  you  have  done  in  my  case.f* 

ANTONIO   [Confused].    I  don't  know  — 

DURAND.  I  know  what  I,  as  a  father,  should 
have  done,  but  —  father-like  —  I  didn't  do  it. 
But  I  know  what  to  do  the  next  time. 

ANTONIO.  On  account  of  that  very  thing  it 
seems  to  me  that  you  should  think  very  care- 
fully about  what  you  do,  and  not  leave  your 
daughters  to  chance. 

DURAND.  Monsieur  Antonio,  you  are  a  young 
man  who,  for  some  inexplicable  reason,  has 
won  my  regard.  Whether  you  grant  it,  or 
not,  I  am  going  to  ask  one  thing  of  you. 
Don't  form  any  opinions  about  me  as  an 
individual,  or  about  my  conduct. 

ANTONIO.  Monsieur  Durand,  I  promise  it  if 
you  will  answer  me  one  question ;  are  you 
Swiss  born,  or  not.? 

DURAND.  I  am  a  Swiss  citizen. 

ANTONIO.  Yes,  I  know  that,  but  I  ask  if  you 
were  born  in  Switzerland. 

DURAND   [UncertaiTdyl.    Yes. 

ANTONIO.  I  asked  only  —  because  it  interested 
me.  Nevertheless  —  as  I  must  believe  you 
that  your  pension  must  be  closed,  I  want  to 
pay  what  I  owe.     To  be  sure  it's  only  ten 


FACING     DEATH  7 

francs,   but   I   can't   go   away  and  leave   an 
unpaid  bill. 

DURAND.  I  can't  be  sure  that  this  is  really  a 
debt,  as  I  don't  keep  the  accounts,  but  if 
you  have  deceived  me  you  shall  hear  from  me. 
Now  I'll  go  and  get  the  bread.  Afterward 
we'll  find  out. 

[^Goes  out.  Antonio  alone.  Afterward 
Therese  comes  in,  carrying  a  rat-trap. 
She  wears  a  morning  negligee  and  her  hair 
is  do7mi.~\ 

THERESE.  Oh,  there  you  are,  Antonio!  I 
thought  I  heard  the  old  man. 

ANTONIO.  Yes,  he  went  to  get  the  coffee-bread, 
he  said. 

THERESE.  Hadn't  he  done  that  already.^  No, 
do  you  know,  we  can't  stand  him  any  longer. 

ANTONIO.  How  beautiful  you  are  today,  The- 
rese!    But  that  rat-trap  isn't  becoming. 

THERESE.  And  such  a  trap  into  the  bargain! 
I  have  set  it  for  a  whole  month,  but  never, 
never  get  a  live  one,  although  the  bait  is 
eaten  every  morning.  Have  you  seen  Mimi 
around  ? 

ANTONIO.  That  damned  cat.?  It's  usually 
around  early  and  late,  but  today  I've  been 
spared  it. 

THERESE.  You  must  spcak  beautifully  about 
the  absent,  and  remember,  he  who  loves  me, 
loves  my  cat.  [She  puts  rat-trap  on  table 
and  picks  up  an  empty  saucer  from  under 
table.]     Adele,  Adele! 


8  STRINDBERG 

ADELE  \_In  the  kitchen  door'].  What  does  Her 
Highness  demand  so  loudly? 

THERBSE.  Her  Highness  demands  milk  for  her 
cat  and  a  piece  of  cheese  for  your  rats. 

ADELE.  Go  get  them  yourself. 

THERESE.  Is  that  the  way  to  answer  Her  High- 
ness ? 

ADELE.  The  answer  fits  such  talk.  And  besides, 
you  deserve  it  for  showing  yourself  before 
a  stranger  with  your  hair  not  combed. 

THERESE.  Aren't  we  all  old  friends  here,  and  — 
Antonio,  go  and  speak  nicely  to  Aunt  Adele, 
and  then  you'll  get  some  milk  for  Mimi. 
[Antonio  hesitates.]  Well,  aren't  you  going 
to  mind? 

ANTONIO   [Sharply].     No. 

THERESE.  What  kind  of  a  way  to  speak  is  that? 
Do  you  want  a  taste  of  my  riding  whip? 

ANTONIO.  Impudence! 

THERESE  [Amazed].  What's  that?  What's 
that?  Are  you  trying  to  remind  me  of  my 
position,  my  debt,  my  weakness? 

ANTONIO.  No,  I  only  want  to  remind  you  of 
my  position,  my  debt,  my  weakness. 

ADELE  [Getting  the  saucer].  Now  listen,  good 
friends.  What's  all  this  foolishness  for?  Be 
friends  —  and  then  I'll  give  you  some  very 
nice  coffee.  [Goes  into  the  kitchen.] 

THERESE  [Crying].  You  are  tired  of  me,  An- 
tonio, and  you  are  thinking  of  giving  me  up. 

ANTONIO.  You  mustn't  cry,  it  will  make  your 
eyes  so  ugly. 


FACING     DEATH  9 

THERESE.  Oh,  if  they  are  not  as  beautiful  as 
Annette's  — 

ANTONIO.  —  So,  it's  Annette  now  ?  But  now 
look  here,  all  fooling  aside,  isn't  it  about  time 
we  had  our  coffee? 

THERESE.  You'd  make  a  charming  married  man 
—  not  able  to  wait  a  moment  for  your  coffee. 

ANTONIO.  And  what  a  lovable  married  lady  you 
would  be,  who  growls  at  her  husband  because 
she  has  made  a  blunder. 

[Armette  comes  in  fully  dressed  and  hair 
done  up.~\ 

ANNETTE.  You  Seem  to  be  quarreling  this 
morning. 

ANTONIO.  See,  there's  Annette,  and  dressed  al- 
ready. 

THERESE.  Yes,  Annette  is  so  extraordinary  in 
every  respect,  and  she  also  has  the  prerog- 
ative of  being  older  than  I  am. 

ANNETTE.  If  you  dou't  hold  your  tongue  — 

ANTONIO.  —  Oh,  now,  now,  be  good,  now,  The- 
rese! 

[He  puts  his  arm  around  her  and  kisses 
her.  Monsieur  Durand  appears  in  the 
doorway  as  he  does  50.] 

DURAND   [Astonished^.     What's  this? 

THERESE   [Freeing  herself^.     What? 

DURAND.  Did  my  eyes  see  right? 

THERESE.  What  did  you  see? 

DURAND.  I  saw  that  you  allowed  a  strange  gen- 
tleman to  kiss  you. 

THERESE.   That's  a  lie! 


10  STRINDBERG 

DURAND.  Have  I  lost  my  sight,  or  do  you  dare 

lie  to  my  face? 
THERESE.  Is   it   for  you   to   talk   about  lying, 

you  who  lie  to  us   and  the  whole  world  by 

saying  that  you  were  born  a  Swiss  although 

you  are  a  Frenchman? 
DURAND.  Who  said  that? 
THERESE.  Mother  said  so. 
DURAND   [^To  Antonio^.     Monsieur  Lieutenant, 

as  our  account  is  settled,  I'll  ask  you  to  leave 

this  house  immediately,  or  else  — 
ANTONIO.   Or  else? 
DURAND.  Choose  your  weapon. 
ANTONIO.  I   wonder  what   sort   of  defense  you 

would  put  up  other  than  the  hare's ! 
DURAND.  If  I  didn't  prefer  my  stick,  I  should 

take  the  gun  that  I  used  in  the  last  war. 
THERESE.  You  havc  surely  been  at  war  —  you 

who  deserted! 
DURAND.  Mother  said  that,  too.     I  can't  fight 

the  dead,  but  I  can  fight  the  living. 

[Lifts  his  walking-stick  and  goes  toward 
Antonio.       There  se    and    Annette    throw 
themselves  between  the  men.~\ 
ANNETTE.   Think  what  you  are  doing! 
THERESE.   This  will  end  on  the  scaffold! 
ANTONIO   [Backing    away'\.      Good-bye,    Mon- 
sieur Durand.     Keep  my  contempt  —  and  my 

ten  francs. 
DURAND   [Takes    a   gold   piece    from    his    vest 

pocket  and  throws  it  toward  Antonio~\,     My 

curses  follow  your  gold,  scamp! 


FACING     DEATH  11 

[Therese  and  Annette  following  Antonio, ~\ 
THERESE  and  ANNETTE.  Don't  go,  don't  leave 

us  !    Father  will  kill  us  ! 
DURAND   [Breaks  his  stick  in  two^.     He  who 

cannot  kill  must  die. 
ANTONIO.  Good-bye,  and  I  hope  you'll  miss  the 

last  rat  from  your  sinking  ship. 

[He  goes.] 
THERESE    \_To  Durand].     That's  the  way  you 

treat   your   guests!      Is   it   any   wonder   the 

house  has  gone  to  pieces! 
DURAND.  Yes  —  that's  the  way  —  such  guests  ! 

But  tell  me,  Therese,  my  child  —  \_Takes  her 

head  between  his  hands]  tell  me,  my  beloved 

child,  tell  me  if  I  saw  wrong  just  now,  or  if 

you  told  a  falsehood. 
THERESE   [Peevishly] .     What  ? 
DURAND.  You  know  what  I  mean.     It  isn't  the 

thing  itself,  which  can  be  quite  innocent  — 

but  it  is  a  matter  of  whether  I  can  trust  my 

senses  that  interests  me. 
THERESE.  Oh,    talk    about    something    else.  — 

Tell  us  rather  what  we  are  going  to  eat  and 

drink  today.     For  that  matter,  it's  a  lie;    he 

didn't  kiss  me. 
DURAND.  It    isn't    a    lie.      In    Heaven's   name, 

didn't  I  see  it  happen? 
THERESE.  Prove  it. 
DURAND.  Prove  it.?     With  two  witnesses  or  — 

a  policeman!     [To  Annette.]     Annette,  my 

child,  will  you  tell  me  the  truth? 
ANNETTE.  I  didn't  see  anything. 


12  STRINDBERG 

DURAND.  That's  a  proper  answer.  For  one 
should  never  accuse  one's  sister.  How  like 
your  mother  you  are  today,  Annette ! 

ANNETTE.  Don't  you  say  anything  about 
mother!  She  should  be  living  such  a  day 
as  this ! 

[Adele  comes  in  with  a  glass  of  milk,  which 
she  puts  on  table. ^ 

ADELE  [To  Durand].  There's  your  milk. 
What  happened  to  the  bread .? 

DURAND.  Nothing,  my  children.  It  will  con- 
tinue to  come  as  it  always  has  up  to  the 
present. 

THERESE  \_Grabs  the  glass  of  milk  from  her 
father].  You  shall  not  have  anything,  you 
who  throw  away  money,  so  that  your  children 
are  compelled  to  starve. 

ADELE.  Did  he  throw  away  money,  the  wretch.? 
He  should  have  been  put  in  the  lunatic  asy- 
lum the  time  mother  said  he  was  ripe  for  it. 
See,  here's  another  bill  that  came  by  way  of 
the  kitchen. 

[Durand  takes  the  bill  and  starts  as  he 
looks  at  it.  Pours  a  glass  of  water  and 
dri/nks.  Sits  down  and  lights  his  briar 
pipe.] 

ANNETTE.  But  he  cau  afford  to  smoke  tobacco. 

DURAND  [Tired  and  submissively].  Dear  chil- 
dren, this  tobacco  didn't  cost  me  any  more 
than  that  water,  for  it  was  given  to  me  six 
months  ago.  Don't  vex  yourselves  need- 
lessly. 


FACING     DEATH  13 

THERESE  [Takes  mutches  away'].  Well,  at 
least  you  sha'n't  waste  the  matches. 

DURAND.  If  you  knew,  Therese,  how  manj^ 
matches  I  have  wasted  on  you  when  I  used 
to  get  up  nights  to  see  if  you  had  thrown 
off  the  bedclothes!  If  you  knew,  Annette, 
how  many  times  I  have  secretly  given  you 
water  when  you  cried  from  thirst,  because 
your  mother  believed  that  it  was  harmful  for 
children  to  drink ! 

THERESE.  Well,  all  that  was  so  long  ago  that 
I  can't  bother  about  it.  For  that  matter,  it 
was  only  your  duty,  as  you  have  said  your- 
self. 

DURAND.  It  was,  and  I  fulfilled  my  duty  and  a 
little  more  too. 

ADELE.  Well,  continue  to  do  so,  or  no  one 
knows  what  will  become  of  us.  Three  young 
girls  left  homeless  and  friendless,  without 
anything  to  live  on !  Do  you  know  what 
want  can  drive  one  to.f^ 

DURAND.  That's  what  I  said  ten  years  ago,  but 
no  one  would  heed  me ;  and  twenty  years  ago 
I  predicted  that  this  moment  would  come, 
and  I  haven't  been  able  to  prevent  its  coming. 
I  have  been  sitting  like  a  lone  brakeman  on 
an  express  train,  seeing  it  go  toward  an 
abyss,  but  I  haven't  been  able  to  get  to  the 
engine  valves  to  stop  it. 

THERESE.  And  now  you  want  thanks  for  land- 
ing in  the  abyss  with  us. 

DURAND.   No,  my  child,  I  only  ask  that  you  be 


14.  STRINDBERG 

a  little  less  unkind  to  me.  You  have  cream 
for  the  cat,  but  you  begrudge  milk  to  your 
father,  who  has  not  eaten  for  —  so  long. 

THERESE.  Oh,  it's  you,  then,  who  has  be- 
grudged milk  for  my  cat ! 

DURAND.  Yes,  it's  I. 

ANNETTE.  And  perhaps  it  is  he  who  has  eaten 
the  rats'  bait,  too. 

DURAND.  It  is  he. 

ADELE.   Such  a  pig! 

THERESE  [Laughingly.  Think  if  it  had  been 
poisoned ! 

DURAND.  Alas,  if  only  it  had  been,  you  mean! 

THERESE.  Yes,  you  surely  wouldn't  have 
minded  that,  you  who  have  so  often  talked 
about  shooting  yourself  —  but  have  never 
done  it! 

DURAND.  Why  didn't  you  shoot  me?  That's  a 
direct  reproach.  Do  you  know  why  I  haven't 
done  it?  To  keep  you  from  going  into  the 
lake,  my  dear  children.  —  Say  something  else 
unkind  now.  It's  like  hearing  music  —  tunes 
that  I  recognize — from  the  good  old  times — 

ADELE.  Stop  such  usclcss  talk  now  and  do  some- 
thing.    Do  something. 

THERESE.  Do  you  kuow  what  the  consequences 
may  be  if  you  leave  us  in  this  shape? 

DURAND.  You  will  go  and  prostitute  yourselves. 
That's  what  your  mother  always  said  she'd 
do  when  she  had  spent  the  housekeeping 
money  on  lottery  tickets. 


FACING     DEATH  15 

ADELE.  Silence!  Not  a  word  about  our  dear, 
beloved  mother! 

DURAND   [Half  humming  to  himself^. 
In  this  house  a  candle  bums, 
When  it  burns  out  the  goal  he  earns. 
The  goal  once  won,  the  storm  will  come 
With  a  great  crash.     Yes  !     No ! 
[/f   has   begun   to   blow  outside  and  grown 
cloudy.      Durand  rises  quickly  and  says   to 
Adele'\    Put   out  the  fire  in  the  stove.     The 
wind  storm  is  coming. 

ADELE  [Looking  Durand  in  the  eyes^.  No,  the 
wind  is  not  coming. 

DURAND.  Put  out  the  fire.  If  it  catches  fire 
here,  we'll  get  nothing  from  the  insurance. 
Put  out  the  fire,  I  say,  put  it  out. 

ADELE.  I  don't  understand  you. 

DURAND  [Looks  in  her  eyes,  taking  her  hand^. 
Just  obey  me,  do  as  I  say.  [Adele  goes  into 
kitchen,  leaving  the  door  open.  To  Therese 
and  Annette. ^  Go  up  and  shut  the  windows, 
children,  and  look  after  the  draughts.  But 
come  and  give  me  a  kiss  first,  for  I  am  going 
away  to  get  money  for  you. 

THERESE.   Can  you  get  money? 

DURAND.  I  have  a  life  insurance  that  I  think  I 
am  going  to  realize  on. 

THERESE.   How  much  can  you  get  for  it? 

DURAND.  Six  hundred  francs  if  I  sell  it,  and 
five  thousand  if  I  die.  [Therese  concerned.] 
Now,  tell  me,  my  child,  —  we  mustn't  be 
needlessly  cruel,  —  tell  me,  Therese,  are  you 


16  STRINDBERG 

so  attached  to  Antonio   that  you  would  be 

quite  unhappy  if  you  didn't  get  him? 
THERESE.  Oh,  yes ! 
DURAND.   Then  you  must  marry  him  if  he  really 

loves  you.      But  you  mustn't  be   unkind  to 

him,  for  then  you'll  be  unhappy.     Good-bye, 

my  dear  beloved  child. 

[Takes   her    in    his    arms   and   kisses    her 
cheek  s.~\ 
THERESE.   But    you    mustu't    die,    father,    you 

mustn't. 
DURAND.  Would  you  grudge  me  going  to  my 

peace  ? 
THERESE.   No,    uot    if    you    wish    it    yourself. 

Forgive  me,   father,  the  many,  many   times 

I've  been  unkind  to  you. 
DURAND.   Nonsense,  my  child. 
THERESE.   But  uo   oue   was   so   unkind   to   you 

as  I. 
DURAND.  I  felt  it  less  because  I  loved  you  most. 

Why,  I  don't  know.     But  run  and  shut  the 

windows. 
THERESE.  Here  are  your  matches,  papa  —  and 

there's  your  milk. 
DURAND   [Smilingly.     Ah,  you  child! 
THERESE.  Well,  what  can  I  do.''     I  haven't  any- 
thing else  to  give  you. 
DURAND.  You  gave  me  so  much  joy  as  a  child 

that  you  owe  me  nothing.     Go  now,  and  just 

give  me   a   loving   look  as   you   used   to   do. 

[There se  turns  and  throws  herself  into  his 


FACING     DEATH  17 

arms.]      So,   so,   my   child,  now  all   is   well. 
[There se  runs  out.l^     Farewell,  Annette. 

ANNETTE.  Are  you  going  away.^^  I  don't  un- 
derstand all  this. 

DURAND.  Yes,  I'm  going. 

ANNETTE.  But  of  course  you're  coming  back, 
papa. 

DTJRAND.  Who  knows  whether  he  will  live 
through  the  morrow  .^^  Anyway,  we'll  say 
farewell. 

ANNETTE.  Adieu,  then,  father  —  and  a  good 
journey  to  you.  And  you  won't  forget  to 
bring  something  home  to  us  just  as  you  used 
to  do,  will  you.? 

DURAND.  And  you  remember  that,  though  it's 
so  long  since  I've  bought  anything  for  you 
children?    Adieu,  Annette. 

[Annette  goes.  Durand  hums  to  himself. '\ 
Through  good  and  evil,  great  and  small. 
Where  you  have  sown,  others  gather  all. 
[Adele  comes  in.]  Adele,  come,  now  you 
shall  hear  and  understand.  If  I  speak  in 
veiled  terms,  it  is  only  to  spare  your  con- 
science in  having  you  know  too  much.  Be 
quiet.  I've  got  the  children  up  in  their 
rooms.  First  you  are  to  ask  me  this  ques- 
tion, "  Have  you  a  life  insurance  policy  ?  " 
Well.? 

ADELE  [Questioningly  and  uncertain] .  "  Have 
you  a  life  insurance  policy.?  " 

DURAND.  No,  I  had  one,  but  I  sold  it  long  ago, 
because  I  thought  I  noticed  that  some  one 


18  STRINDBERG 

became  irritable  when  it  was  due.  But  I  have 
a  fire  insurance.  Here  are  the  papers.  Hide 
them  well.  Now,  I'm  going  to  ask  you  some- 
thing ;  do  you  know  how  many  candles  there 
are  in  a  pound,  mass  candles  at  seventy-five 
centimes  ? 

ADELE.  There  are  six. 

DURAND  [^Indicating  the  package  of  candles']. 
How  many  candles  are  there  there.'' 

ADELE.  Only  fiwe. 

DURAND.  Because  the  sixth  is  placed  very  high 
up  and  very  near  — 

ADELE.  —  Good  Lord ! 

DURAND  [Looking  at  his  watcli\.  In  five  min- 
utes or  so,  it  will  be  burned  out. 

ADELE.    No! 

DURAND.  Yes  !  Can  you  see  dawn  any  other  way 
in  this  darkness  .'^ 

ADELJE.    No. 

DURAND.  Well,  then.  That  takes  care  of  the 
business.  Now  about  another  matter.  If 
Monsieur  Durand  passes  out  of  the  world  as 
an  [Whispers]  incendiary,  it  doesn't  matter 
much,  but  his  children  shall  know  that  he 
lived  as  a  man  of  honor  up  to  that  time. 
Well,  then,  I  was  bom  in  France,  but  I 
didn't  have  to  admit  that  to  the  first  scamp 
that  came  along.  Just  before  I  reached  the 
age  of  conscription  I  fell  in  love  with  the 
one  who  later  became  my  wife.  To  be  able 
to  marry,  we  came  here  and  were  naturalized. 
When  the  last  war  broke  out,  and  it  looked  as 


FACING     DEATH  19 

if  I  was  going  to  carry  a  weapon  against  my 
own  country,  I  went  out  as  a  sharpshooter 
against  the  Germans.  I  never  deserted,  as 
you  have  heard  that  I  did  —  your  mother 
invented  that  story. 

ADELE.  Mother  never  lied  — 

DURAND.  —  So,  so.  Now  the  ghost  has  risen 
and  stands  between  us  again.  I  cannot  enter 
an  action  against  the  dead,  but  I  swear  I  am 
speaking  the  truth.  Do  you  hear.''  And  as 
far  as  your  dowry  is  concerned,  that  is  to 
say  your  maternal  inheritance,  these  are  the 
facts :  first,  your  mother  through  careless- 
ness and  foolish  speculations  ruined  your 
paternal  inheritance  so  completely  that  I  had 
to  give  up  my  business  and  start  this  pen- 
sion. After  that,  part  of  her  inheritance  had 
to  be  used  in  the  bringing-up  of  you  children, 
which  of  course  cannot  be  looked  upon  as 
thrown  away.     So  it  was  also  untrue  that  — 

ADELE.  No,  that's  not  what  mother  said  on  her 
death-bed  — 

DURAND.  —  Then  your  mother  lied  on  her 
death-bed,  just  as  she  had  done  all  through 
her  life.  And  that's  the  curse  that  has  been 
following  me  like  a  spook.  Think  how  you 
have  innocently  tortured  me  with  these  two 
lies  for  so  many  years !  I  didn't  want  to  put 
disquiet  into  your  young  lives  which  would 
result  in  your  doubting  your  mother's  good- 
ness. That's  why  I  kept  silent.  I  was  the 
bearer  of  her  cross  throughout  our  married 


20  STRINDBERG 

life;  carried  all  her  faults  on  my  back,  took 
all  the  consequences  of  her  mistakes  on  my- 
self until  at  last  I  believed  that  I  was  the 
guilty  one.  And  she  was  not  slow,  first  to 
believe  herself  to  be  blameless,  and  then  later 
the  victim.  "  Blame  it  on  me,"  I  used  to 
say,  when  she  had  become  terribly  involved 
in  some  tangle.  And  she  blamed  and  I  bore ! 
But  the  more  she  became  indebted  to  me,  the 
more  she  hated  me,  with  the  limitless  hatred 
of  her  indebtedness.  And  in  the  end  she 
despised  me,  trying  to  strengthen  herself  by 
imagining  she  had  deceived  me.  And  last  of 
all  she  taught  you  children  to  despise  me, 
because  she  wanted  support  in  her  weakness. 
I  hoped  and  believed  that  this  evil  but  weak 
spirit  would  die  when  she  died ;  but  evil 
lives  and  grows  like  disease,  while  soundness 
stops  at  a  certain  point  and  then  retrogrades. 
And  when  I  wanted  to  change  what  was 
wrong  in  the  habits  of  this  household,  I  was 
always  met  with  "  But  mother  said,"  and 
therefore  it  was  true ;  "  Mother  used  to  do 
this  way,"  and  therefore  it  was  right.  And 
to  you  I  became  a  good-for-nothing  when  I 
was  kind,  a  miserable  creature  when  I  was 
sensitive,  and  a  scamp  when  I  let  you  all  have 
your  way  and  ruin  the  house. 

ADELE.  It's  honorable  to  accuse  the  dead  who 
can't  defend  themselves ! 

DURAND  {Fast  and  exalted^,  I  am  not  dead 
yet,  but  I  will  be  soon.    Will  you  defend  me 


FACING     DEATH  21 

then?  No,  jou  need  not.  But  defend  your 
sisters.  Think  only  of  my  children,  Adele. 
Take  a  motherly  care  of  Therese;  she  is  the 
youngest  and  liveliest,  quick  for  good  and 
bad,  thoughtless  but  weak.  See  to  it  that  she 
marries  soon,  if  it  can  be  arranged.  Now, 
I  can  smell  burning  straw. 

ADELE.  Lord  protect  us  ! 

DURAND  \_Drinks  from  glassl.  He  will.  And 
for  Annette  you  must  try  to  find  a  place  as 
teacher,  so  that  she  can  get  up  in  the  world 
and  into  good  company.  You  must  manage 
the  money  when  it  falls  due.  Don't  be  close, 
but  fix  up  your  sisters  so  that  they  will  be 
presentable  to  the  right  kind  of  people. 
Don't  save  anything  but  the  family  papers, 
which  are  in  the  top  drawer  of  my  chiffonier 
in  the  middle  room.  Here  is  the  key.  The 
fire  insurance  papers  you  have.  [Smoke  is 
seen  forcing  its  way  through  the  ceiling.^ 
It  will  soon  be  accomplished  now.  In  a  mo- 
ment you  will  hear  the  clanging  from  St. 
Fran9ois.  Promise  me  one  thing.  Never 
divulge  this  to  your  sisters.  It  would  only 
disturb  their  peace  for  the  rest  of  their  lives. 
[He  sits  hy  table.']  And  one  thing  more, 
never  a  hard  word  against  their  mother.  Her 
portrait  is  also  in  the  chiffonier;  none  of 
you  knew  that,  because  I  found  it  was  enough 
that  her  spirit  walked  unseen  in  the  home. 
Greet  Therese,  and  ask  her  to  forgive  me. 
Don't   forget   that   she  must   have   the   best 


22  STRINDBERG 

when   you   buy   her   clothes ;    you   know   her 
weakness   for   such   things   and  to   what   her 
weakness  can  bring  her.     Tell  Annette  — 
[^  distant  clanging  of  bells  is  heard;    the 
smoke  increases.     Monsieur  Durand  drops 
his  head  in  his  hands  on  the  table.^ 
ADELE.  It's    burning,    it's    burning!      Father, 
what's    the    matter    with    you?      You'll    be 
burned  up! 

[Durand  lifts   his  head,   takes   the  water 
glass  up  and  puts  it  down  with  a  meaning- 
ful gesture.^ 
You  have  —  taken  —  poison ! 
DURAND   [Nods  affirmatively^.     Have  you  the 
insurance  papers  ?     Tell  Therese  —  and  An- 
nette — 

[His  head  falls.  The  hell  in  distance 
strikes  again.  Rumbling  and  murmur  of 
voices  outside.'] 

Curtain. 


PARIAH,    OR    THE    OUTCAST 
One-Act  Play 


CHARACTERS 

MR.  X.,  an  archeologist 

MR.  Y.,  a  traveller  from  America 

Both  middle-aged 


PARIAH,    OR    THE    OUTCAST 

Scene  —  Simple  room  in  a  country  house; 
door  and  window  at  back,  through  which  one 
sees  a  country  landscape.  In  the  middle  of 
the  room  a  large  dining  table;  on  one  side 
of  it  books  and  writing  materials  and  on  the 
other  side  some  antiques,  a  microscope,  insect 
boxes,  alcohol  jars.  To  the  left  of  scene  a 
bookshelf,  and  all  the  other  furnishings  are 
those  of  a  country  gentleman.  Mr.  Y.  enters 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  carrying  an  insect  net  and 
a  botanical  tin  box.  He  goes  directly  to  the 
i)Ook-shelf,  takes  down  a  book  and  reads 
stealthily  from  it.  The  after-service  bell  of 
a  country  church  rings.  The  landscape  and 
room  are  flooded  with  sunshine.  Now  and 
then  one  hears  the  clucking  of  hens  outside. 
Mr.  X.  comes  in  also  in  shirt-sleeves.  Mr.  Y. 
starts  nervously,  returns  the  book  to  its 
place,  and  pretends  to  look  for  another  book 
on  the  shelf. 

MR.  X.  What  oppressive  heat !  We'll  surely 
have  a  thunder-shower. 

MR.  Y.  Yes?     What  makes  you  think  so? 

MR.  X.  The  bells  sound  like  it,  the  flies  bite  so, 
and  the  hens  are  cackling.     I  wanted  to  go 
fishing,  but   I   couldn't  find   a   single  worm. 
Don't  you  feel  rather  nervous? 
1 


%  STRINDBERG 

MR.  Y.   \_Reflectively'\.     I?     Well,  yes. 

MR.  X.  But  you  always  look  as  if  you  expected 
a  thunder-shower. 

MR.  Y.   Do  I? 

MR.  X.  Well,  as  you  are  to  start  pfF  on  your 
travels  again  tomorrow,  it's  not  to  be  won- 
dered at  if  you  have  the  knapsack  fever. 
What's  the  news.?  Here's  the  post.  [Takes 
up  letters  from  the  table.~\  Oh,  I  have  pal- 
pitation of  the  heart  every  time  I  open  a 
letter.  Nothing  but  debts,  debts!  Did  you 
ever  have  any  debts? 

MR.  Y.   \_Reflecting~\.     No-o-o. 

MR.  X.  Well,  then,  of  course  you  can't  under- 
stand how  it  feels  to  have  unpaid  bills  come 
in.  [He  reads  a  letter.]^  The  rent  owing  — 
the  landlord  clamoring  —  and  my  wife  in 
despair.  And  I,  I  sitting  up  to  my  elbows 
in  gold.  [Opens  an  iron-mounted  case,  which 
stands  on  the  table.  They  both  sit  down, 
one  on  each  side  of  the  case.~\  Here  is  six 
thousand  crowns'  worth  of  gold  that  I've  dug 
up  in  two  weeks.  This  bracelet  alone  would 
bring  the  three  hundred  and  fifty  crowns  I 
need.  And  with  all  of  it  I  should  be  able 
to  make  a  brilliant  career  for  myself.  The 
first  thing  I  should  do  would  be  to  have  draw- 
ings made  and  cuts  of  the  figures  for  my 
treatises.  After  that  I  would  print  —  and 
then  clear  out.  Why  do  you  suppose  I  don't 
do  this.'* 


PARIAH  S 

MR.  Y.  It  must  be  because  you  are  afraid  of 
being  found  out. 

MR.  X.  Perhaps  that,  too.  But  don't  you  think 
that  a  man  of  my  intelHgence  should  be  able 
to  manage  it  so  that  it  wouldn't  be  found 
out.?  I  always  go  alone  to  dig  out  there  on 
the  hills  —  without  witnesses.  Would  it  be 
remarkable  to  put  a  little  something  in  one's 
pockets  ? 

MR.  Y.  Yes,  but  disposing  of  it,  they  say,  is 
the  dangerous  part. 

MR.  X.  Humph,  I  should  of  course  have  the 
whole  thing  smelted,  and  then  I  should  have 
it  cast  into  ducats — full  weight,  of  course — 

MR.  Y.  Of  course! 

MR.  X.  That  goes  without  saying.  If  I  wanted 
to  make  counterfeit  money — well,  it  wouldn't 
be  necessary  to  dig  the  gold  first.  \_Pause.^\ 
It's  remarkable,  nevertheless,  that  if  some! 
one  were  to  do  what  I  can't  bring  myself  to| 
do,  I  should  acquit  him.  But  I  should  notl 
be  able  to  acquit  myself.  I  should  be  able 
to  put  up  a  brilliant  defense  for  the  thief; 
prove  that  this  gold  was  res  nullius,  or  no 
one's,  and  that  it  got  into  the  earth  before 
there  were  any  land  rights ;  that  even  now 
it  belongs  to  no  one  but  the  first  comer,  as 
the  owner  had  never  accounted  it  part  of  his 
property,  and  so  on. 

MR.  Y.  And  you  would  not  be  able  to  do  this 
if  —  h'm  !  —  the  thief  had  stolen  through 
need,    but   rather    as   an    instance   of   a   col- 


4  STRINDBERG 

lector's  mania,  of  scientific  interest,  of  the 
ambition  to  make  a  discovery,  —  isn't  that 
so? 

MR.  X.  You  mean  that  I  wouldn't  be  able  to 
^acquit  him  If  he  had  stolen  through  need? 
'No,  that  Is  the  only  instance  the  law  does 
not  pardon.     That  is  simple  theft,  that  is ! 

MK.  Y.  And  that  you  would  not  pardon? 

MR.  X.  H'm!  Pardon!  No,  I  could  hardly 
pardon  what  the  law  does  not,  and  I  must 
confess  that  it  would  be  hard  for  me  to  ac- 
cuse a  collector  for  taking  an  antique  that  he 
did  not  have  in  his  collection,  which  he  had 
dug  up  on  some  one  else's  property. 
(/'  MR.  Y.  That  is  tosayi_yajiityj_aipbiJion^^ 
/  \      gain  pardon  whereneed^  could  not  ?  _ ._ 

MRS— Xr-YesT'that's  the  way  it  Is.  And  never- 
theless need  should  be  the  strongest  motive, 
the  only  one  to  be  pardoned.  But  I  can 
change  that  as  little  as  I  can  change  my  will 
not  to  steal  under  any  condition. 

MR.  Y.  And  you  count  It  a  great  virtue  that 
you  cannot  —  h'm  —  steal? 

MR.  X.  With  me  not  to  steal  Is  just  as  Irresisti- 
ble as  stealing  Is  to  some,  and,  therefore,  no 
virtue.  I  cannot  do  it  and  they  cannot  help 
doing  it.  You  understand,  of  course,  that 
the  Idea  of  wanting  to  possess  this  gold  is 
not  lacking  in  me.  Why  don't  I  take  It  then  ? 
I  cannot;  It's  an  inability,  and  a  lack  is  not 
a  virtue.     And  there  you  are! 

[^Closes  the  case  with  a  bang.     At  times 


PARIAH  6 

stray  clouds  have  dimmed  the  light  in  the 
room  and  now  it  darkens  with  the  ap- 
proaching storm.l^ 

MR.  X.  How  close  it  is !  I  think  we'll  have  some 
thunder. 

[Mr.  Y.  rises  and  shuts  the  door  and  wvn- 
dow.~\ 

MR.  X.  Are  joujafmid^ofjbhunder.'^ 

MR.  Y.  One  should  be  careful. 

{They  sit  again  at  table. ^ 

MR.  X.  You  are  a  queer  fellow.  You  struck 
here  like  a  bomb  two  weeks  ago,  and  you 
introduced  yourself  as  a  Swedish-American 
who  travels,  collecting  insects  for  a  little 
museum. 

MR.  Y.  Oh,  don't  bother  about  me. 

MR.  X.  That's  what  you  always  say  when  I  get 
tired  of  talking  about  myself  and  want  to 
devote  a  little  attention  to  you.  Perhaps  it 
was  because  you  let  me  talk  so  much  about ^ 
myself  that  you  won  my  sympathy.  We 
were  soon  old  acquaintances ;  there  were  no 
corners  about  you  for  me  to  knock  against, 
no  needles  or  pins  to  prick.  There  was  some- 
thing so  mellow^  about  your  whole  personal- 
ity ;  you  "were  so  considerate,  a  character- 
istic which  only  the  most  cultivated  can  dis- 
play; you  were  never  noisy  when  you  came 
home  late,  never  made  any  disturbance  when 
you  got  up  in  the  morning;  you  overlooked 
trifles,  drew  aside  when  ideas  became  conflict- 
ing;   in  a  word,  you  were  the  perfect  com- 


6  STRINDBERG 

panion;  but  you  were  altogether_too  sub- 
missive, too  negative,  too  quiet,  not  to  have 

x/  me  reflect  about  it  in  the  course  of  time.  And 
you  are  fearful  and  timid;  you  look  as  if 
you  led  a  double  life.  Do  you  know,  as  you 
sit  there  before  the  mirror  and  I  see  your 
back,  it's  as  if  I  were  looking  at  another 
person.  [Mr.  Y.  turns  and  looks  in  the 
mirror. ~\  Oh,  you  can't  see  your  back  in  the 
mirror.     Front  view,  you  look  like  a  frank, 

^  fearless^ man  who  goes  to  meet  his  fate  with 
^  open-  heart,  but  back  view,  —  well,  I  don't 
wish  to  be  discourteous,  but  you  look  as 
if  you  carried  a  burden,  as  if  you  were 
shrinking  from  a  lash ;  and  when  I  see  your 
red  suspenders  across  your  white  shirt  —  it 
looks  like  —  like  a  big  brand,  a  trade  mark 
on  a  packing  box. 

MR.  Y.  [Rising].  I  believe  I  will  suffocate  — 
if  the  shower  doesn't  break  and  come  soon. 

MR.  X.  It  will  come  soon.  Just  be  quiet.  And 
the  back  of  your  neck,  too,  it  looks  as  if  there 
were  another  head  on  it,  with  the  face  of  an- 
other type  than  you.  You  are  so  terribly 
,  narrow   between   the    ears    that    I    sometimes 

^  wonder  if  you  don't  belong  to  another  race. 
[There  is  flash  of  lightning. ~\  That  one 
looked  as  if  it  struck  at  the  sheriff's. 

MR.  Y.    [  Worried] .     At  the  —  sh-sheriff 's ! 

MR.  X.  Yes,  but  it  only  looked  so.  But  this 
thunder  won't  amount  to  anything.  Sit  down 
now   and   let's   have   a   talk,   as   you   are   off 


A 


PARIAH  7 

again  tomorrow.  —  It's  queer  that,  although 
I  became  intimate  with  you  so  soon,  you  are 
one  of  those  people  whose  likeness  I  cannot 
recall  when  they  are  out  of  my  sight.  When 
you  are  out  in  the  fields  and  I  try  to  recall 
your  face,  another  acquaintance  always 
comes  to  mind  —  some  one  who  doesn't  really 
look  like  you,  but  whom  you  resemble  never- 1 
theless. 

MR.  Y.  Who  is  that.? 

MR.  X.  I  won't  mention  the  name.  However, 
I  used  to  have  dinner  at  the  same  place  for 
many  years,  and  there  at  the  lunch  counter 
I  met  a  little  blond  man  with  pale,  worried 
eyes.  He  had  an  extraordinary  faculty  of 
getting  about  in  a  crowded  room  without 
shoving  or  being  shoved.  Standing  at  the 
door,  he  could  reach  a  slice  of  bread  two 
yards  away ;  he  always  looked  as  if  he  was 
happy  to  be  among  people,  and  whenever  he 
ran  into  an  acquaintance  he  would  fall  into 
rapturous  laughter,  embrace  him,  and  do  the 
figure  eight  around  him,  and  carry  on  as  if 
he  hadn't  met  a  human  being  for  years ;  if 
any  one  stepped  on  his  toes  he  would  smile 
as  if  he  were  asking  pardon  for  being  in  the 
way.  For  two  years  I  used  to  see, him,  and 
I  used  to  amuse  myself  trying  to  figure  out 
his  business  and  character,  but  I  never  asked 
any  one  who  he  was,  —  I  didn't  want  to 
know,  as  that  would  have  put  an  end  to  my 
amusement.      That  man  had  the  same  inde- 


8  STRINDBERG 

finable  cliaracteristics  as  you ;  sometimes  I 
would  make  him  out  an  undergraduate 
teacher,  an  under  officer,  a  druggist,  a  gov- 
ernment clerk,  or  a  detective,  and  like  jou, 
he  seemed  to  be  made  up  of  two  different 
pieces  and  the  front  didn't  fit  the  back.  One 
day  I  happened  to  read  in  the  paper  about  a 
big  forgery  by  a  well-known  civil  official. 
After  that  I  found  out  that  my  indefinable 
acquaintance  had  been  the  companion  of  the 
forger's  brother,  and  that  his  name  was 
Straman ;  and  then  I  was  informed  that  the 
afore-mentioned  Straman  had  been  connected 
with  a  free  library,  but  that  he  was  then  a 
police  reporter  on  a  big  newspaper.  How 
could  I  then  get  any  connection  between  the 
forgery,  the  police,  and  the  indefinable  man's 
appearance.?  I  don't  know,  but  when  I  asked 
a  man  if  Straman  had  ever  been  convicted, 
he  answered  neither  yes  nor  no  —  he  didn't 
know.  [Pause. ^ 

MR.  Y.  Well,  was  he  ever  —  convicted  ? 

ME.  X.  No,  he  had  not  been  convicted. 

[Pause. 1 

MR.  Y.  You  mean  that  was  why  keeping  close 
to  the  police  had  such  attraction  for  him, 
and  why  he  was  so  afraid  of  bumping  into 
people  ? 

MR.  X.  Yes. 

MR.  Y.  Did  you  get  to  know  him  afterward.'' 

MR.  X.  No,  I  didn't  want  to. 


PARIAH  9 

MR.  Y.  Would  you  have  allowed  yourself  to 
know  him  if  he  had  been  convicted? 

MR.  X.  Yes,  indeed. 

[J/r.  F.  rises  and  walks  up  and  dozvn.^ 

MR.  X.   Sit  still.     Why  can't  you  sit  quietly. 

MR.  Y.  How  did  you  get  such  a  liberal  attitude 
towards  people's  conduct.?  Are  you  a  Chris- 
tian ? 

MR.  X.  No,  —  of  course  I  couldn't  be,  —  as' 
you've  just  heard.  The  Christians  demand 
forgiveness,  but  I  demand  punishment  for 
the  restoration  of  balance,  or  whatever  you 
like  to  call  it,  and  you,  who  have  served 
time,  ought  to  understand  that. 

MR.  Y.  IStops  as  if  transfixed.  Regards  Mr, 
X,  at  first  with  wild  hatred^  then  with  sur- 
prise and  wonderment. '\  How  —  do  —  you 
—  know  —  that  ? 

MR.  X.  It's  plain  to  be  seen. 

MR.  Y.  How.''    How  can  you  see  it.^* 

MR.  X.  I  have  taught  myself.  That's  an  art, 
too.  But  we  won't  talk  about  that  matter. 
\_Looks  at  his  watch.  Takes  out  a  paper  for 
signing.  Dips  a  pen  and  offers  it  to  Mr.  F.] 
I  must  think  about  my  muddled  affairs. 
Now  be  so  kind  as  to  witness  my  signature 
on  this  note,  which  I  must  leave  at  the  bank 
at  Malmo  when  I  go  there  with  you  tomor- 
row morning. 

MR.  Y.  I  don't  intend  to  go  by  way  of  Malmo. 

MR.  X.   No.? 

MR.  Y.    No. 


k 


10  STRINDBERG 

MR.  X.  But  you  can  witness  my  signature  nev- 
ertheless. 

MR.  Y.  No-o.  I  never  sign  my  name  to  pa- 
pers — 

MR.  X.  — Any  more !  That's  the  fifth  time  that 
you  have  refused  to  write  your  name.     The 

i   first  time  was  on  a  postal  receipt,  —  and  it 

^i  was  then  that  I  began  to  observe  you;  and 
now,  I  see  that  you  have  a  horror  of  touch- 
ing pen  and  ink.  You  haven't  sent  a  letter 
since  you've  been  here.  Just  one  postal- 
card,  and  that  you  wrote  with  a  blue  pencil. 
4  Do  you  see  now  how  I  have  figured  out  your 
mis-step?  Furthermore,  this  is  the  seventh 
time  that  you  have  refused  to  go  to  Malmo, 
where  you  have  not  gone  since  you  have  been 
here.  Nevertheless  you  came  here  from 
America  just  to  see  Malmo;  and  every  morn- 
ing you  have  walked  southward  three  miles 
and  a  half  to  the  windmill  hill  just  to  see  the 
roofs  of  Malmo;  also,  when  you  stand  at 
the  right-hand  window,  through  the  third 
window-pane  to  the  left,  counting  from  the 
bottom  up,  you  can  see  the  turrets  of  the 
castle,  and  the  chimneys  on  the  state  prison. 
j\  Do  you  see  now  that  it  is  not  that  I  am  so 
•  clever  but  that  you  are  so  stupid.? 

MR.  Y.  Now  you  hate  me. 

MR.  X.   No. 

MR.  Y.  Yes,  you  do,  you  must. 

MR.  X.  No  —  see,  here's  my  hand. 

MR.  Y.   \_Kisses  the  proffered  hand^. 


A 


PARIAH  11 

MR.  X.  [Drawing  hack  his  hand].  What  dog's 
trick  is  that? 

MR.  Y.  Pardon !  But  thou  art  the  first  to  offer 
me  his  hand  after  knowing  — 

MR.  X.  —  And  now  you  are  "  thou-ing  "  me ! 
It  alarms  me  that,  after  serving  your  time, 
you  do  not  feel  your  honor  retrieved,  that 
you  do  not  feel  on  equal  footing,  —  in  fact, 
just  as  good  as  any  one.  Will  you  tell  me 
how  it  happened?    Will  you? 

MR.  Y.  [Dubiousli^].  Yes,  but  you  won't  be- 
lieve what  I  say.  I'm  going  to  tell  you, 
though,  and  you  shall  see  that  I  was  not  a 
common  criminal.  You  shall  be  convinced 
that  mis-steps  are  made,  as  one  might  say, 
involuntarily  —  \^Shakily]  as  if  they  came  of 
their  own  accord,  spontaneously,  without  in- 
tention, blamelessly  !  —  Let  me  open  the  win- 
dow a  little.  I  think  the  thunder-shower  has 
passed  over. 

MR.  X.  Go  ahead. 

MR.  Y.  \^Goes  and  opens  the  window,  then  comes 
and  sits  by  the  table  again  and  tells  the  fol-\ 
lowing  with  great  enthusiasm,  theatrical  ges- 
tures and  false  accents].  Well,  you  see  I 
was  a  student  at  Lund,  and  once  I  needed  a 
loan.  I  had  no  dangerously  big  debts,  my 
father  had  some  means  —  not  very  much,  to 
be  sure;  however,  I  had  sent  away  a  note  of 
hand  to  a  man  whom  I  wanted  to  have  sign 
it  as  second  security,  and  contrary  to  all  ex- 


12  STRINDBERG 

/  pectations,  it  was  returned  to  me  with  a 
refusal.  I  sat  for  a  while  benumbed  by  the 
blow,  because  it  was  a  disagreeable  surprise, 
very  disagreeable.  The  note  lay  before  me 
on  the  table,  and  beside  it  the  letter  of  re- 
fusal. My  eyes  glanced  hopelessly  over  the 
fatal  lines  which  contained  my  sentence.  To 
be  sure  it  wasn't  a  death-sentence,  as  I  could 
easily  have  got  some  other  man  to  stand  as 
security ;  as  many  as  I  wanted,  for  that  mat- 
ter —  but,  as  I've  said,  it  was  very  unpleas- 
ant; and  as  I  sat  there  in  my  innocence,  my 
glance  rested  gradually  on  the  signature, 
which,  had  it  been  in  the  right  place,  would 
have  made  my  future.  That  signature  was 
most  unusual  calligraphy  —  you  know  how, 
as  one  sits  thinking,  one  can  scribble  a  whole 
blotter  full  of  meaningless  words.  I  had  the 
t)en  in  my  hand  —  [He  takes  up  the  pen^ 
\  like  this,  and  before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing 
it  started  to  write,  —  of  course  I  don't  want 
to  imply  that  there  was  anything  mystical  — 
spiritualistic,  behind  it  —  because  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  such  things !  —  it  was  purely  a 
thoughtless,  mechanical  action  — :  when  I  sat 
and  copied  the  beautiful  autograph  time 
after  time  —  without,  of  course,  any  pros- 
pect of  gain.  When  the  letter  was  scrib- 
bled all  over,  I  had  acquired  skill  enough  to 

^  reproduce  the  signature  remarkably  well  — 
[Throws  the  pen  down  with  violence]  and 
then  I  forgot  the  whole  thing.     That  night 


PARIAH  13 

my  sleep  was  deep  and  heavy,  and  when  I 
awakened  I  felt  that  I  had  been  dreaming, 
but  I  could  not  recall  the  dream;  however, 
It  seemed  as  though  the  door  to  my  dream 
opened  a  little  when  I  saw  the  writing  table 
and  the  note  in  memory  —  and  when  I  got 
up  I  was  driven  to  the  table  absolutely,  as 
if,  after  ripe  consideration,  I  had  made  the 
irrevocable  resolution  to  write  that  name  on* 
the  fateful  paper.  All  thought  of  risk,  of 
consequence,  had  disappeared  —  there  was 
no  wavering  —  it  was  almost  as  if  I  were 
fulfilling  a  precious  duty  —  and  I  wrote. 
^Springs  to  his  feet,~\  What  can  such  a 
thing  be.f^  Is  it  inspiration,  hypnotic  sugges^ 
tion,  as  it  is  called?  But  from  whom.^^  I 
slept  alone  in  my  room.  Could  it  have  been 
my  uncivilized  ego,  the  barbarian  that  does 
not  recognize  conventions,  but  who  emerged 
with  his  criminal  will  and  his  inability  to  cal- 
culate the  consequences  of  his  deed  ?  Tell  me, 
what  do  you  think  about  such  a  case.^^ 

MR.  X.  [^Bored^ .  To  be  honest,  your  story  does 
not  quite  convince  me.  There  are  holes  in 
it,  —  but  that  may  be  due  to  your  not  being 
able  to  remember  all  the  details,  —  and  I 
have  read  a  few  things  about  criminal  in- 
spirations —  and  I  recall  —  h'm  —  but  never 
mind.  You  have  had  your  punishment,  yoii 
have  had  character  enough  to  admit  your 
error,  and  we  won't  discuss  it  further. 

ME.   Y.  Yes,   yes,  yes,  we   will  discuss  it;    we 


14  STRINDBERG 

must  talk,  so  that  I  can  have  complete  con- 
sciousness of  my  unswerving  honesty. 

MR.  X.  But  haven't  you  that? 

MB.  Y.  No,  I  haven't. 

MR.  X.  Well,  you  see,  that's  what  bothers  me, 

that's  what  bothers  me.     Don't  you  suppose 

that  each   one   of   us   has    a   skeleton   in   his 

closet .f^     Yes,  indeed!     Well,  there  are  people 

who   continue  to   be   children   all  their  lives, 

io  that  they  cannot  control  their  lawless  de- 

jiires.     Whenever  the  opportunity  comes,  the 

^priminal  is  ready.     But  I  cannot  understand 

jwhy  jou  do  not  feeP  innocent.     As  the  child 

lis     considered     irresponsible,     the     criminal 

.should  be  considered  so  too.     It's  strange  — 

well,  it  doesn't  matter ;    I'll  regret  it  later. 

v    [Pause. '\     I  killed  a  man  once,  and  I  never 
had  any  scruples. 

MR.  Y.   \_Veri/ interested].     You  —  did.^* 

MR.   X.  Yes  —  I    did.      Perhaps   you   wouldn't 
like  to  take  a  murderer's  hand.'* 

MR.  Y.    [Cheerily].     Oh,  what  nonsense! 

MR.  X.  Yes,  but  I  have  not  been  punished  for  it. 

MR.  Y.    [Intimate,  superior].     So  much  the  bet- 
ter for  you.     How  did  you  get  out  of  it.? 

MR.  X.  There  were  no  accusers,  no  suspicions, 
no  witnesses.  It  happened  this  way:  om 
Christmas  a  friend  of  mine  had  invited  m 
for  a  few  days'  hunting  just  outside  of  Up- 
sala ;  he  sent  an  old  drunken  servant  to  meet 
me,  who  fell  asleep  on  the  coach-box  and 
drove  into  a  gate-post,   which  landed  us   in 


PARIAH  15 

the  ditch.  It  was  not  because  my  life  had 
been  in  danger,  but  in  a  fit  of  anger  I  struck 
him  a  blow  to  wake  him,  with  the  result  that 
he  never  awakened  again  —  he  died  on  the 
spot. 

2^11.  Y.   [Cunningly^.      And    you    didn't    give 
yourself  up.^ 

MR.  X.  No,  and  for  the  following  reasons.  The 
man  had  no  relatives  or  other  connections 
who  were  dependent  on  him.  He  had  lived 
out  his  period  of  vegetation  and  his  place 
could  soon  be  filled  by  some  one  who  was 
needed  more,  while  I,  on  the  other  hand,  was"- 
indispensable  to  the  happiness  of  my  parents,' 
my  own  happiness,  and  perhaps  to  science.! 
Through  the  outcome  of  the  affair  I  was 
cured  of  the  desire  to  strike  any  more  blows, 
and  to  satisfy  an  abstract  justice  I  did  not 
care  to  ruin  the  lives  of  my  parents  as  well 
as  my  own  life. 

MR.  Y.   So?     That's  the  way  you  value  human    ^: 
Hfe.? 

MR.  X.  In  that  instance,  yes. 

MR.  Y.   But  the  feeling  of  guilt,  the  "  restora-  < 
tion  of  balance.'*  "  * 

MR.  X.   I  had  no  guilty  feeling,  as  I  had  com-, 
mitted  no  crime.     I  had  received  and  given      , 
blows  as  a  boy,  and  it  was  only  ignorance  J 
of   the   effect   of   blows    on    old   people   that 
caused  the  fatality. 

MR.  Y.  Yes,  but  it  is  two  years'  hard  labor  for 
homicide  —  just  as  much  as  for  —  forgery. 


16  STRINDBERG 

MB.  X.  You  may  believe  I  have  thought  of  that 
too,  and  many  a  night  have  I  dreamed  that 
I  was  in  prison.  Ugh!  is  it  as  terrible  as 
it's  said  to  be  behind  bolts  and  bars? 

MR.  Y.  Yes,  it  is  terrible.  First  they  disfigure 
your  exterior  by  cutting  off  your  hair,  so  if 
you  did  not  look  like  a  criminal  before,  you 
do  afterward,  and  when  you  look  at  your- 
self in  the  mirror,  you  become  convinced  that 
you  are  a  desperado. 

MR.  X.  It's  the  mask  that  they  pull  off;  that's 
not  a  bad  idea. 

MR.  y.  You  jest!  Then  they  cut  down  your 
rations,  so  that  every  day,  every  hour  you 
feel  a  distinct  difference  between  life  and 
death ;  all  life's  functions  are  repressed ;  you 
feel  yourself  grovelling,  and  your  soul,  which 
should  be  bettered  and  uplifted  there,  is  put 
on  a  starvation  cure,  driven  back  a  thousand 
years  in  time ;  you  are  only  allowed  to  read 
what  was  written  for  the  barbarians  of  the 
migratory  period ;  you  are  allowed  to  hear 
about  nothing  but  that  which  can  never  come 
to  pass  in  heaven,  but  what  happens  on  earth 
^  remains  a  secret ;  you  are  torn  from  your 
own  environment,  moved  down  out  of  your 
class ;  you  come  under  those  who  come  under 
you ;  you  have  visions  of  living  in  the  bronze 
age,  feel  as  if  you  went  about  in  an  animal's 
skin,  lived  in  a  cave,  and  ate  out  of  a  trough ! 
Ugh! 

MR.  X.  That's  quite  rational.    Any  one  who  be- 


PARIAH  17 

haves  as   if  he  belonged  to  the  bronze  age 
ought  to  live  in  the  historic  costume. 

MR.  Y.  \_Spitefully~\.  You  scofF,  you,  you  who\ 
have  behaved  like  a  man  of  the  stone  age !  i 
And  you  are  allowed  to  live  in  the  gold  age! 

MR.  X.  \_Searchingly  and  sharp].  What  do  you 
mean  by  that  last  expression  —  the  gold  age.'' 

MR.  Y.    l^Insidiouslyl.     Nothing  at  all. 

MR.  X.  That's  a  lie;  you  are  too  cowardly  to 
state  your  whole  meaning. 

MR.  Y.  Am  I  cowardly?  Do  you  think  that? 
I  wasn't  cowardly  when  I  dared  to  show  my- 
self in  this  neighborhood,  where  I  have  suf- 
fered what  I  have.  —  Do  you  know  what 
one  suffers  from  most  when  one  sits  in  there? 
It  is  from  the  fact  that  the  others  are  not 
sitting  in  there  too. 

MR.  X.  What  others? 

MR.  Y.  The  unpunished. 

MR.  X.  Do  you  allude  to  me? 

MR.  Y.  Yes. 

MR.  X.  I  haven't  committed  any  crime,    r 

MR.  Y.  No?     Haven't  you? 

MR.  X.  No.     An  accident  is  not  a  crime. 

MR.  Y.   So,  it's  an  accident  to  commit  murder? 

MR.  X.  I  haven't  committed  any  murder. 

MR.  Y.   So  ?    Isn't  it  murder  to  slay  a  man  ? 

MR.  X.  No,  not  always.  There  is  manslaughter, 
homicide,  assault  resulting  in  death,  with  the 
subdivisions,  with  or  without  intent.  How- 
ever, now  I  am  really  afraid  of  you,  for  you 


18  STRINDBERG 

,  \  belong  in  the  most  dangerous  category  of 
1  human  beings,  the  stupid. 

MR.  Y.  So  you  think  that  I  am  stupid?  Now 
listen!  Do  you  want  me  to  prove  that  I  am 
very  shrewd  .^^ 

MR.  X.  Let  me  hear. 

MR.  Y.  Will  you  admit  that  I  reason  shrewdly 
and  logically  when  I  say  this?  You  met  with 
an  accident  which  might  have  brought  you 
two  years  of  hard  labor.  You  have  escaped 
the  ignominious  penalty  altogether.  Here 
sits  a  man  who  also  has  been  the  victim  of  an 
accident,  an  unconscious  suggestion,  and 
Torced  to  suffer  two  years  of  hard  labor.  This 
man  can  wipe  out  the  stain  he  has  unwittingly 
brought  upon  himself  only  through  scientific 
achievement ;  but  for  the  attainment  of  this 
he  must  have  money  —  much  money,  and 
that  immediately.  Doesn't  it  seem  to  you 
that  the  other  man,  the  unpunished  one, 
would  restore  the  balance  of  human  relations 
if  he  were  sentenced  to  a  tolerable  fine? 
Don't  you  think  so? 

MR.  X.   \_Qui€tly'\.     Yes. 

MR.  Y.  Well,  we  understand  each  other.  —  H'm ! 
How  much  do  you  consider  legitimate? 

MR.  X.  Legitimate?  The  law  decrees  that  a 
man's  life  is  worth  at  the  minimum  fifty 
crowns.  But  as  the  deceased  had  no  rela- 
tives, there's  nothing  to  be  said  on  that 
score. 

ME.  Y.   Humph,  you  will  not  understand  ?    Then 


PARIAH  19 

I  must  speak  more  plainly.  It  is  to  me  that 
you  are  to  pay  the  fine. 

MR.  X.  I've  never  heard  that  a  homicide  should 
pay  a  fine  to  a  forger,  and  there  is  also  no 
accuser. 

MR.  Y.  'No?    Yes,  you  have  me. 

MR.  X.  Ah,  now  things  are  beginning  to  clear 
up.  How  much  do  you  ask  to  become  ac- 
complice to  the  homicide? 

MR.  Y.   Six  thousand  crowns. 

MR.  X.  That's  too  much.  Where  am  I  to  get 
it.?  [Mr.  Y.  points  to  the  case.^  1  don't 
want  to  do  that,  I  don't  want  to  become  a 
thief. 

MR.  Y.  Don't  pretend.  Do  you  want  me  to 
believe  that  you  haven't  dipped  into  that  case 
before  now? 

MR.  X.  \_As  to  himself~\.  To  think  that  I  could 
make  such  a  big  mistake!  But  that's  the 
way  it  always  is  with  bland  people.  One  is 
fond  of  gentle  people,  and  then  one  believes 
so  easily  that  he  is  liked;  and  just  on  ac- 
count of  that  I  have  been  a  little  watchful  of 
those  of  whom  I've  been  fond.  So  you  are 
fully  convinced  that  I  have  helped  myself 
from  that  case? 

MR.  Y.  Yes,  I'm  sure  of  it. 

MR.  X.  And  you  will  accuse  me  if  you  do  not 
receive  the  six  thousand  crowns? 

MR.  Y.  Absolutely.  You  can't  get  out  of  it, 
so  it's  not  worth  while  trying  to  do  so. 

MR.  X.  Do  you  think  I  would  give  my  father 


20  STRINDBERG 

a  thief  for  son,  my  wife  a  thief  for  husband, 
my  children  a  thief  for  father,  and  my  con- 
freres a  thief  for  comrade?  That  shall  never 
happen.  Now  I'll  go  to  the  sheriff  and  giva 
myself  up. 

MR.  Y.  [Springs  up  and  gets  his  things  to- 
gether].    Wait  a  moment. 

MR.  X.  What  for? 

MR.  Y.  [Stammering} .  I  only  thought  —  that 
as  I'm  not  needed  —  I  wouldn't  need  to  be 
present  —  and  could  go. 

MR.  X.  You  cannot.  Sit  down  at  your  place  at 
the  table,  where  you've  been  sitting,  and  we 
will  talk  a  little. 

MR.  Y.  [Sits,  after  putting  on  a  dark  coat}. 
What's  going  to  happen  now? 

MR.  X.  [Looking  into  mirror}.  Now  every- 
thing is  clear  to  me !    Ah ! 

MR.  Y.  [Worried}.  What  do  you  see  now 
that's  so  remarkable? 

MR.  X.  I  see  in  the  mirror  that  you  are  a  thief, 
la  simple,  common  thief.  Just  now,  when  you 
sat  there  in  your  shirt-sleeves,  I  noticed  that 
something  was  wrong  about  my  book-shelf, 
but  I  couldn't  make  out  what  it  was,  as  I 
wanted  to  listen  to  you  and  observe  you. 
Now,  since  you  have  become  my  antagonist, 
my  sight  is  keener,  and  since  you  have  put 
on  that  black  coat,  that  acts  as  a  color  con- 
trast against  the  red  backs  of  the  books, 
which  were  not  noticeable  before  against  your 
red  suspenders,  I  see  that  you  have  been  there 


PARIAH  21 

and  read  your  forgery  story  in  Bernheim's 
essay  on  hypnotic  suggestion,  and  returned 
the  book  upside  down.  So  you  stole  that 
story  too !  In  consequence  of  all  this  I  con- 
sider that  I  have  the  right  to  conclude  that 
you  committed  your  crime  through  need,  or 
because  you  were  addicted  to  pleasures. 

MR.  Y.  Through  need.     If  you  knew  — 

MR.  X.  If  you  knew  in  what  need  I  have  lived, 
and  lived,  and  still  live!  But  this  is  no  time 
for  that.  To  continue,  that  you  have  served 
time  is  almost  certain,  but  that  was  in  Amer- 
ica, for  it  was  American  prison  life  that  you 
described ;  another  thing  is  almost  as  certain 
—  that  you  have  not  served  out  your  sen- 
tence here. 

MR.  Y.  How  can  you  say  that? 

MR.  X.  Wait  until  the  sheriff  comes  and  you 
will  know.  [Mr.  Y.  rises.l^  Do  you  see.'*  The 
first  time  I  mentioned  the  sheriff  in  connec- 
tion with  the  thunderbolt,  you  wanted  to  run 
then,  too ;  and  when  a  man  has  been  in  that 
prison  he  never  wants  to  go  to  the  windmill 
hill  every  day  to  look  at  it,  or  put  himself 
behind  a  window-pane  to  —  to  conclude,  you 
have  served  one  sentence,  but  not  another. 
That's  why  you  were  so  difficult  to  get  at. 

[Pause. ^ 

MR.  Y.    [Completely  defeated].    May  I  go  now.? 

MR.  X.  Yes,  you  may  go  now. 

MR.  Y.  [Getting  his  things  together].  Are  you 
angry  with  me.? 


22  STRINDBERG 

MR.  X.  Yes.  Would  you  like  it  better  if  I  pit- 
ied you? 

MR.  Y.  IWrathfiUly],  Pity!  Do  you  consider 
yourself  better  than  I  am? 

MR.  X.  Of  course  I  do,  as  I  am  better.  I  am 
more  intelligent  than  you  are,  and  of  more 
worth  to  the  common  weal. 

MR.  Y.  You  are  pretty  crafty,  but  not  so  craft}^ 
as  I  am.  I  stand  in  check  myself,  but,  nev- 
ertheless, the  next  move  you  can  be  check- 
mated. 

MR.  X.  {^Fiadng  Mr.  Y.  with  his  eye~\.  Shall  we 
have  another  bout?  What  evil  do  you  intend 
to  do  now? 

MR.  Y.  That  is  my  secret. 

MR.  X.  May  I  look  at  you  ?  —  You  think  of 
writing  an  anonymous  letter  to  my  wife,  dis- 
closing my  secret. 

MR.  Y.  Yes,  and  you  cannot  prevent  it.     You 

'  dare  not  have  me  imprisoned,  so  you  must  let 
me  go ;  and  when  I  have  gone  I  can  do  what 
I  please. 

MR.  X.  Ah,  you  devil!  You've  struck  my 
Achilles  heel  —  will  you  force  me  to  become 
a  murderer? 

MR.  Y.  You  couldn't  become  one!  You  timid 
creature ! 

MR.  X.  You  see,  then,  there  is  a  difference  in 
people  after  all,  and  you  feel  within  you 
that  I  cannot  commit  such  deeds  as  you,  and 
that  is  your  advantage.     But  think  if  you 


PARIAH  23 

forced  me  to  deal  with. you  as  I  did  with  the 

coachman ! 

\_Lifts  his  hand  as  if  to  strike,     Mr.   Y. 
looks  hard  at  Mr.  X.^ 

Mil.  Y.  You  can't  do  it.  He  who  dared  not  take 
his  salvation  out  of  the  case  couldn't  do  that. 

MR.  X.  Then  you  don't  beHeve  that  I  ever  took 
from  the  case.'' 

MR.  Y.  You  were  too  cowardly,  just  as  yoil 
were  too  cowardly  to  tell  your  wife  that  she, 
is  married  to  a  murderer.  ! 

MR.  X.  You  are  a  different  kind  of  being  from 
me  —  whether  stronger  or  weaker  I  do  not 
know  —  more  criminal  or  not  —  that  doesn't 
concern  me.  But  you  are  the  stupider,  that's 
proven.  Because  you  were  stupid  when  you 
forged  a  man's  name  instead  of  begging  — 
as  I  have  had  to  do ;  you  were  stupid  when 
you  stole  out  of  my  book  —  didn't  you  real- 
ize that  I  read  my  books.?  You  were  stupid 
when  you  thought  that  you  were  more  intel- 
ligent than  I  am  and  that  you  could  fool  me 
into  becoming  a  thief;  you  were  stupid 
when  you  thought  that  the  restoration  of 
balance  would  be  accomplished  by  the  world's 
having  two  thieves  instead  of  one;  and  you 
were  most  stupid  when  you  believed  that  I 
have  built  my  life's  happiness  without  hav- 
ing laid  the  cornerstone  securely.  Go  and 
write  your  anonymous  letter  to  my  wife 
about  her  husband  being  a  homicide  —  that 


24  STRINDBERG 

she  knew  as  my  fiancee.      Do  you   give  up 

now? 
MR.  Y.   Can  I  go? 
MR.  X.  Now  you  shall  go  —  immediately.   Your 

things  will  follow  you. 


Curtain. 


EASTER 


CHARACTERS 

MRS.  HEYST 

ELIS,   her  son.      Instructor  in   a  preparatory 

school 
ELEONORA,  her  daughter 
CHRISTINE,  Ells'  fiancee 
BENJAMIN,  a  freshman 
LINDKVIST 


EASTER 


Scene  for  the  entire  play,  —  The  interior  of  a 
glass-enclosed  piazza,  furnished  like  a  living- 
room.  A  large  door  at  the  middle  hack  lead- 
ing out  into  the  garden  with  fence  and  gar- 
den gate  visible.  Beyond  one  sees  the  tops 
of  trees  (indicating  that  the  house  is  situated 
on  a  height),  and  in  the  distance  the  cathe- 
dral and  another  high  building  loom  against 
the  sky.  The  glass  windows  which  extend 
across  the  entire  back  of  scene  are  hung  with 
flowered  yellow  cretonne,  which  can  be  drawn 
open.  A  mirror  hangs  on  the  panel  between 
door  and  window  on  the  left.  Below  the 
mirror  is  a  calendar.  To  the  right  of  door 
a  writing  table  covered  with  books  and  wri- 
ting materials.  A  telephone  is  also  on  it. 
To  L.  of  door  is  a  dining  table,  stove  and 
bureau.  At  R.  in  foreground  a  small  sewing 
table  with  lamp  on  it.  Near  it  are  two  arm- 
chairs. A  hanging  lamp  at  center.  Outside 
in  the  street  an  electric  light.  At  L.  there 
is  a  door  leading  from  piazza  to  the  house, 
at  R.  a  door  leading  to  the  kitchen.  Time, 
the  present. 

1 


2  STRINDBERG 


ACT    I. 

Thursday  before  Easter,  The  music  before 
curtain  is:  Haydn:  Sieben  Worte  des  Erlosers. 
Introduction:    Maestoso  Adagio. 

A  ray  of  sunlight  falls  across  the  room  and 
strikes  one  of  the  chairs  near  the  sewing  table. 
In  the  other  chair,  untouched  by  the  sun- 
shine, sits  Christine,  running  strings  thro' 
muslin  sash-curtains.  Elis  enters  wearing  a 
winter  overcoat,  unbuttoned.  He  carries  a 
bundle  of  legal  documents  which  he  puts  on 
the  writing  table.  After  that  he  takes  off  his 
overcoat  and  hangs  it  at  L, 

ELIS.  Hello,  sweetheart. 

CHRISTINE.  Hello,  Elis. 

ELIS  [Looks  around^.  The  double  windows  are 
off,  the  floor  scoured,  fresh  curtains  at  the 
windows  —  yes,  it  is  spring  again  !  The  ice 
has  gone  out  of  the  river,  and  the  willows  are 
beginning  to  bud  on  the  banks  —  yes,  spring 
has  come  and  I  can  put  away  my  winter  over- 
coat. [Weighs  his  overcoat  in  his  hand  and 
hangs  it  up.']  You  know,  it's  so  heavy  — 
just  as  tho'  it  had  absorbed  the  weight  of  the 
whole  winter's  worries,  the  sweat  and  dust  of 
the  school-room. 


EASTER  8 

CHRISTINE.  But  you  liave  a  vacation  now. 

ELis.  Yes,  Easter.  Five  days  to  enjoy,  to 
breathe,  to  forget.  \_Takes  Christine's  hand 
a  minute,  and  then  seats  himself  in  arm- 
chair.'\  Yes,  the  sun  has  come  again.  It  left 
us  in  November.  How  well  I  remember  the 
day  it  disappeared  behind  the  brewery  across 
the  street.     Oh,  this  winter,  this  long  winter. 

CHRISTINE  [With  a  gesture  toward  kitchen]. 
Sh!   Sh! 

ELIS.  I'll  be  quiet  —  But  I'm  so  happy  that  it's 
over  with.  Oh,  the  warm  sun !  [^Ruhs  his 
hands  as  tho*  bathing  them  in  the  sunshine.] 
I  want  to  bathe  in  the  sunshine  and  light 
after  all  the  winter  gloom  — 

CHRISTINE.    Sh!    Sh! 

ELIS.  Do  you  know,  I  believe  that  good  luck  is 
coming  our  way  —  that  hard  luck  is  tired 
of  us. 

CHRISTINE.  What  makes  you  think  so? 

ELIS.  Why,  as  I  was  going  by  the  cathedral 
just  now  a  white  dove  flew  down  and  alighted 
in  front  of  me,  and  dropped  a  little  branch  it 
was  carrying  right  at  my  feet. 

CHRISTINE.  Did  you  notice  what  kind  of  branch 
it  was  ? 

ELIS.  Of  course  it  couldn't  have  been  an  olive 
branch,  but  I  believe  it  was  a  sign  of  peace  — 
and  I  felt  the  life-giving  joy  of  spring. 
Where's  mother.? 

CHRISTINE  \_Points  toward  kitchen].  In  the 
kitchen. 


4  STRINDBERG 

ELis  \_Quietly  and  closing  his  eyes~\.  I  hear  the 
spring!  I  can  tell  that  the  double  windows 
are  off,  I  hear  the  wheel  hubs  so  plainly. 
And  what's  that?  —  a  robin  chirping  out  in 
the  orchard,  and  they  are  hammering  down  at 
the  docks  and  I  can  smell  the  fresh  paint  on 
the  steamers. 

CHRISTINE.  Can  you  feel  all  that  —  here  in 
town  ^ 

ELis.  Here?  It's  true  we  are  here,  but  I  was 
up  there,  in  the  North,  where  our  home  lies. 
Oh,  how  did  we  ever  get  into  this  dreadful 
city  where  the  people  all  hate  each  other  and 
where  one  is  always  alone?  Yes,  it  was  our 
daily  bread  that  led  the  way,  but  with  the 
bread  came  the  misfortunes:  father's  crim- 
inal act  and  little  sister's  illness.  Tell 
me,  do  you  know  whether  mother  has 
ever  been  to  see  father  since  he's  been  in 
prison  ? 

CHRISTINE.  Why,  I  think  she's  been  there  this 
very  day. 

ELis.  What  did  she  have  to  say  about  it? 

CHRISTINE.  Nothing  —  she  wouldn't  talk  about 
it. 

ELis.  Well,  one  thing  at  least  has  been  gained, 
and  that  is  the  quiet  that  followed  the  verdict 
after  the  newspapers  had  gorged  themselves 
with  the  details.  One  year  is  over:  and  then 
we  can  make  a  fresh  start. 

CHRISTINE.  I  admire  your  patience  in  this  suf- 
fering. 


EASTER  6 

ELis.  Don't.  Don't  admire  anything  about  me. 
I  am  full  of  faults  —  you  know  it. 

CHRISTINE.  If  you  Were  only  suffering  for  your 
own  faults  —  but  to  be  suffering  for  another ! 

ELIS.  What  are  you  sewing  on.'' 

CHRISTINE.  Curtains  for  the  kitchen,  you  dear. 

Eus.  It  looks  like  a  bridal  veil.  This  fall  you 
"will  be  my  bride,  won't  you,  Christine.'' 

CHRISTINE.  Yes  —  but  —  let's  think  of  summer 
first. 

EMS.  Yes,  summer!  [Takes  out  the  check 
book.~\  You  see  the  money  is  already  in  the 
bank,  and  when  school  is  over  we  will  start 
for  the  North,  for  our  home  land  among  the 
lakes.  The  cottage  stands  there  just  as  it 
did  when  we  were  children,  and  the  linden 
trees.  Oh,  that  it  were  summer  already  and 
I  could  go  swimming  in  the  lake!  I  feel  as 
if  this  family  dishonor  has  besmirched  me  so 
that  I  long  to  bathe,  body  and  soul,  in  the 
clear  lake  waters. 

CHRISTINE.  Have  you  heard  anything  from 
Eleonora? 

ELIS.  Yes  —  poor  little  sister !  She  writes  me 
letters  that  tear  my  heart  to  pieces.  She 
wants  to  get  out  of  the  asylum  —  and  home, 
of  course.  But  the  doctor  daren't  let  her  go. 
She  would  do  things  that  might  lead  to  prison, 
he  says.  Do  you  know,  I  feel  terribly  con- 
science-stricken sometimes  — 

CHRISTINE   \_Starting'].    Why.'* 


6  STRINDBERG 

ELis.  Because  I  agreed  with  all  the  rest  of  them 
that  it  was  best  to  put  her  there. 

CHRISTINE.  My  dear,  you  are  always  accusing 
yourself.  It  was  fortunate  she  could  be 
taken  care  of  like  that  —  poor  little  thing ! 

ELis.  Well,  perhaps  you're  right.  It  is  best  so. 
She  is  as  well  off  there  as  she  could  be  any- 
where. When  I  think  of  how  she  used  to  go 
about  here  casting  gloom  over  every  attempt 
at  happiness,  how  her  fate  weighed  us  down 
like  a  nightmare,  then  I  am  tempted  to  feel 
almost  glad  about  it.  I  believe  the  greatest 
misfortune  that  could  happen  would  be  to  see 
her  cross  this  threshold.  Selfish  brute  that  I 
am! 

CHRISTINE.  Human  being  that  you  are! 

ELIS.  And  yet — I  suffer — suffer  at  the  thought 
of  her  misery  and  my  father's. 

CHRISTINE.  It  seems  as  tho'  some  were  bom  to 
suffer. 

ELis.  You  poor  Christine  —  to  be  drawn  into 
this  family,  which  was  cursed  from  the  begin- 
ning !    Yes,  doomed ! 

CHRISTINE.  You  dou't  kuow  whether  it's  all  trial 
or  punishment,  Elis.  Perhaps  I  can  help  you 
through  the  struggles. 

ELIS.  Do  you  think  mother  has  a  clean  dress  tie 
for  me.'' 

CHRISTINE  [^ Anxiously^.    Are  you  going  out.'' 

ELIS.  I'm  going  out  to  dinner.  Peter  won  the 
debate  last  night,  you  know,  and  he's  giving 
a  dinner  tonight. 


EASTER    •  7 

CHRISTINE.  And  you're  going  to  that  dinner? 

ELis.  You  mean  that  perhaps  I  shouldn't  be- 
cause he  has  proven  such  an  unfaithful  friend 
and  pupil? 

CHRISTINE.  I  can't  deny  that  I  was  shocked  by 
his  unfaithfulness,  when  he  promised  to  quote 
from  your  theories  and  he  simply  plundered 
them  without  giving  you  any  credit. 

ELIS.  Ah,  that's  the  way  things  go,  but  I  am 
happy  in  the  consciousness  that  "  this  have  I 
done." 

CHRISTINE.  Has  he  invited  you  to  the  dinner? 

ELIS.  Why,  that's  true  —  come  to  think  of  it, 
he  didn't  invite  me.  That's  very  strange. 
Why  didn't  I  think  of  that  before !  Why,  he's 
been  talking  for  years  as  though  I  were  to 
be  the  guest  of  honor  at  that  dinner,  and  he 
has  told  others  that.  But  if  I  am  not  in- 
vited —  then  of  course  it's  pretty  plain  that 
I'm  snubbed,  insulted,  in  fact.  Well,  it  doesn't 
matter.     It  isn't  the  first  time  —  nor  the  last. 

\_Pause.^ 

CHRISTINE.  Benjamin  is  late.  Do  you  think  he 
will  pass  his  examinations? 

ELIS.  I  certainly  do  —  in  Latin  particularly. 

CHRISTINE.   Benjamin  is  a  good  boy! 

ELIS.  Yes,  but  he's  somewhat  of  a  grumbler. 
You  know  of  course  why  he  is  living  here 
with  us? 

CHRISTINE.  Is  it  because  — 

Eus.  Because  —  my  father  was  the  boy's  guard- 
ian and  spent  his  fortune  for  him,  as  he  did 


8  STRINDBERG 

—  for  so  many  others.  Can  you  fancy, 
Christine,  what  agony  it  is  for  me  as  their 
instructor  to  see  those  fatherless  boys,  who 
have  been  robbed  of  their  inheritance,  suffer- 
ing the  humihations  of  free  scholars?  I  have 
to  think  constantly  of  their  misery  to  be  able 
to  forgive  them  their  cruel  glances. 

CHRISTINE.  I  believe  that  your  father  is  truly 
better  off  than  you. 

ELis.  Truly! 

CHRISTINE.  But  Elis,  we  should  think  of  sum- 
mer, and  not  of  the  past. 

ELIS.  Yes,  of  summer!  Do  you  know,  I  was 
awakened  last  night  by  some  students  singing 
that  old  song,  "  Yes,  I  am  coming,  glad  winds, 
take  this  greeting  to  the  country,  to  the  birds 
—  Say  that  I  love  them,  tell  birch  and  linden, 
lake  and  mountain,  that  I  am  coming  back  to 
them  —  to  behold  them  again  as  in  my  child- 
hood hours  —  "  \_He  rises  —  moved.]  Shall 
I  ever  go  back  to  them,  shall  I  ever  go  out 
from  this  dreadful  city,  from  Ebal,  accursed 
mountain,  and  behold  Gerizim  again? 

\_Seats  himself  near  the  door.] 

CHRISTINE.  Aye,  aye  —  that  you  shall ! 

ELIS.  But  do  you  think  my  birches  and  lindens 
will  look  as  they  used  to  —  don't  you  think 
the  same  dark  veil  will  shroud  them  that  has 
been  lying  over  all  nature  and  life  for  us  ever 
since  the  day  when  father  —  [Points  to  the 
empty  arm-chair  which  is  in  the  shadow,] 
Look,  the  sun  has  gone. 


EASTER  9 

CHRISTINE.  It  will  come  again  and  stay  longer. 

ELis.  That's  true.  As  the  days  lengthen  the 
shadows  shorten. 

CHRISTINE.  Yes,  Elis,  we  are  going  toward  the 
light,  believe  me. 

ELis.  Sometimes  I  believe  that,  and  when  I  think 
of  all  that  has  happened,  all  the  misery,  and 
compare  it  with  the  present  —  then  I  am 
happy.  Last  year  you  were  not  sitting  there, 
for  you  had  gone  away  from  me  and  broken 
off  our  betrothal.  Do  you  know,  that  was  the 
darkest  time  of  all.  I  was  dying  literally  bit 
by  bit ;  but  then  you  came  back  to  me  —  and 
I  lived.     Why  did  you  go  away  from  me.'* 

CHRISTINE.  Oh,  I  don't  know  —  it  seems  to  me 
now  as  if  there  was  no  reason.  I  had  an  im- 
pulse to  go  —  and  I  went,  as  tho'  I  were  walk- 
ing in  my  sleep.  When  I  saw  you  again  I 
awoke  —  and  was  happy. 

ELIS.  And  now  we  shall  go  on  together  forever- 
more.  If  you  left  me  now  I  should  die  in  ear- 
nest. —  Here  comes  mother.  Say  nothing, 
let  her  live  in  her  imaginary  world  in  which 
she  believes  that  father  is  a  martyr  and  that 
all  those  he  sacrificed  are  rascals. 

MRS.  HEYST  [^Comes  from  kitchen.  She  is  paring 
an  apple.  She  is  simply  dressed  and  speaks 
in  an  innocent  voice^.  Good  afternoon,  chil- 
dren. Will  you  have  your  apple  dumpling  hot 
or  cold-f* 

ELIS.   Cold,  mother  dear. 

MRS.  HEYST.  That's  right,  my  boy,  you  always 


10  STRINDBERG 

know  what  you  want  and  say  so.  But  you 
aren't  like  that,  Christine.  EHs  gets  that 
from  his  father;  he  always  knew  what  he 
wanted  and  said  so  frankly,  and  people  don't 
like  that  —  so  things  went  badly  with  him. 
But  his  day  will  come,  and  he'll  get  his  rights 
and  the  others  will  get  their  just  deserts. 
Wait  now,  what  was  it  I  had  to  tell  you  ?  Oh, 
yes,  what  do  you  think?  Lindkvist  has  come 
here  to  live !  Lindkvist,  the  biggest  rascal  of 
them  all ! 

ELis   \_Rises,  disturbed}.    Has  he  come  here.'' 

MRS.  HEYST.  Yes,  indeed,  he's  come  to  live  right 
across  the  street  from  us. 

ELis.  So  now  we  must  see  him  coming  and  going 
day  in  and  day  out.    That  too  ! 

MRS.  HEYST.  Just  let  me  have  a  talk  with  him, 
and  he'll  never  show  his  face  again !  For  I 
happen  to  know  a  few  things  about  him! 
Well,  Elis,  how  did  Peter  come  out  ? 

ELis.   Oh,  finely ! 

MRS.  HEYST.  I  cau  Well  belicvc  that!  When  do 
you  think  you  will  join  the  debating  club.'* 

ELis.  When  I  can  afford  it ! 

MRS.  HEYST.  "  When  I  can  afford  it."  Humph, 
that  isn't  a  very  good  answer !  And  Benjamin 
—  did  he  get  through  his  examinations  all 
right? 

ELIS.  We  don't  know  yet ;  but  he'll  soon  be  here. 

MRS.  HEYST.  Well,  I  don't  quite  like  the  way 
Benjamin  goes  around  looking  so  conscious 
of  his  privileges  in  this  house  —  but  we  shall 


EASTER  11 

take  him  down  soon  enough.  But  he's  a  good 
boy  just  the  same.  Oh,  yes,  there's  a  package 
for  you,  Elis. 

l^Goes  out  to  kitchen  and  comes  back  di- 
rectly with  a  package.  Ji 

ELIS.  Mother  does  keep  track  of  everything, 
doesn't  she?  I  sometimes  believe  that  she  is 
not  so  simple-minded  as  she  seems  to  be. 

MRS.  HEYST.  See,  here's  the  package.  Lina  re- 
ceived it.     Perhaps  it  is  an  Easter  present ! 

ELis.  I'm  afraid  of  presents  since  the  time  I 
received  a  box  of  cobblestones. 

[Puts  the  package  on  the  table.] 

MRS.  HEYST.  Now  I  must  go  back  to  my  duties 
in  the  kitchen.  Don't  you  think  it  is  too  cold 
with  the  door  open? 

Eus.  Not  at  all,  mother. 

MRS.  HEYST.  EHs,  you  shouldu't  hang  your  over- 
coat there.  It  looks  so  disorderly.  Now, 
Christine,  will  my  curtains  be  ready  soon  ? 

CHRISTINE.   In  just  a  few  minutes,  mother. 

MRS.  HEYST  {^To  EUs].  Ycs,  I  like  Peter;  he 
is  my  favorite  among  your  friends.  But  — 
aren't  you  going  to  his  dinner  this  evening, 
Elis? 

ELis.  Yes,  I  suppose  so. 

MRS.  HEYST.  Now,  why  did  you  go  and  say  that 
you  wanted  your  apple  dumpling  cold  when 
you  are  going  out  to  dinner?  You're  so  un- 
decided, Elis.  But  Peter  isn't  like  that.  — 
Shut  the  door  when  it  gets  chilly,  so  that  you 
won't  get  sniffles.  [Goes  out  R.] 


12  STRINDBERG 

ELis.  The  good  old  soul  —  and  always  Peter. 
Does  she  like  to  tease  you  about  Peter? 

CHRISTINE     {^Surprised  and  hurtl^.    Me? 

Eus  [Disconcert ed}.  Old  ladies  have  such  queer 
notions,  you  know. 

CHRISTINE.  What  have  you  received  for  a  pres- 
ent? 

ELIS   \_Opening  package~\.    A  birch  rod! 

CHRISTINE.  From  whom? 

Eiiis.  It's  anonymous.  It's  just  an  innocent  joke 
on  the  schoolmaster.     I  shall  put  it  in  water 

—  and    it    will    blossom    like    Aaron's    staff. 
"  Rod  of  birch,  which  in  my  childhood's  hour  " 

—  And  so  Lindkvist  has  come  here  to  live ! 
CHRISTINE.  Well,  what  about  him? 

ELIS.  We  owe  him  our  biggest  debt. 

CHRISTINE.    You  don't  owe  him  anything. 

ELIS.  Yes,  one  for  all  and  all  for  one;  the  fam- 
ily's name  is  disgraced  as  long  as  we  owe  a 
farthing. 

CHRISTINE.  Change  your  name ! 

ELIS.   Christine! 

CHRISTINE  \_Puts  dowTi  work,  which  is  finished^. 
Thanks,  Elis,  I  was  only  testing  you. 

ELIS.  But  you  must  not  tempt  me.  Lindkvist  is 
not  a  rich  man,  and  needs  what  is  due  him.  — 
When  my  father  got  through  with  it  all  it  was 
like  a  battle-field  of  dead  and  wounded  —  and 
mother  believes  father  is  a  martyr !  Shall  we 
go  out  and  take  a  walk  ? 

CHRISTINE.  And  try  to  find  the  sunshine? 
Gladly ! 


EASTER  13 

ELis.  I  can't  understand  how  it  can  be  that  our 
Saviour  suffered  for  us  and  yet  we  must  con- 
tinue to  suffer. 

CHRISTINE.  Here  comes  Benjamin. 

ELIS.  Can  you  see  whether  he  looks  happy  or 
not.? 

CHRISTINE  \_Looks  out  door~\.  He  walks  so 
slowly,  he's  stopped  at  the  fountain  —  and 
bathing  his  eyes. 

Exis.  And  this  too ! 

CHRISTINE.  Wait  until  — 

Eijs.   Tears!    Tears! 

CHRISTINE.  Patience. 

[Enter  Benjamin.  He  has  a  kind  face  and 
seems  very  downcast.  He  carries  several 
books  and  a  portfolio.^ 

ELIS.  Well,  how  did  you  get  along  in  Latin? 

BENJAMIN.  Badly! 

ELIS.  Let  me  see  your  examination  paper. 
What  did  you  do.? 

BENJAMIN.  I  used  "  ut "  with  the  indicative, 
altho'  I  knew  it  should  be  the  subjunctive. 

ELIS.  Then  you  are  lost !  But  how  could  you 
do  that? 

BENJAMIN   \_Submissively^.     I   can't  explain  it 
—  I  knew  how  it  should  be.     I  meant  to  do 
it  right,  but  some  way  I  wrote  it  wrong. 
[^Seats  himself  dejectedly  near  dining  ta- 
ble.] 

ELIS  \_Sinks  down  near  writing  desk  and  opens 
Benjamin^ s  portfolio].  Yes,  here  it  is  —  the 
indicative,  oh ! 


14  STRINDBERG 

CHRISTINE  [Faintly,  with  effort^.    Well,  better 

luck  next  time  —  life  is  long. 
ELis.  Terribly  long. 
BENJAMIN.  Yes,  it  is. 
ELis   [Sadly  hut  without  bitterness'^.     But  that 

everything   should   come   at   the   same   time! 

You  were  my  best  pupil,  so  what  can  I  expect 

of  the  others  ?    My  reputation  as  a  teacher  is 

lost.     I   shall  not  be   allowed  to   teach  any 

longer  and  so  —  complete  ruin!     [To  Ben- 

jamin.'l      Don't  take  it  to  heart  so  —  it  is 

not  your  fault. 
CHRISTINE   [With  great  effort^.    Elis,  courage, 

courage,  for  God's  sake. 
ELIS.  What  shall  I  get  it  from? 
CHRISTINE.  What  you  got  it  from  before. 
ELIS.  But  things  are  not  as  they  were.     I  seem 

to  be  in  complete  disgrace  now. 
CHRISTINE.  There  is  no  disgrace  in  undeserved 

suffering.     Don't  be  impatient.     Be  equal  to 

the  test,  for  it  is  just  another  test.    I  feel  sure 

of  that. 
ELIS.  Can  a  year  for  Benjamin  become  less  than 

three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days? 
CHRISTINE.  Yes,    a    cheerful    spirit    makes    the 

days  shorter. 
ELIS   [Smiling'\.      Blow  upon   the  burn;    that 

heals  it,  children  are  told. 
CHRISTINE.  Be  a  child  then,  and  let  me  tell  you 

that.     Think  of  your  mother,  how  she  bears 

everything. 
ELIS.  Give    me    your    hand;     I    am    sinking. 


EASTER  15 

[Christi/ne   reaches   out   her  hand   to   him.'] 
Your  hand  trembles.  — 

CHRISTINE.  No,  not  that  I  know  of  — 

ELis.  You  are  not  so  strong  as  you  seem  to 
be  — 

CHRISTINE.  I  do  not  feel  any  weakness  — 

ELIS.  Why  can't  you  give  me  some  strength 
then? 

CHRISTINE.  I  have  none  to  spare ! 

ELIS  \_Looking  out  of  the  zvindow].  Do  you 
see  who  that  is  coming? 

[Christine  goes  and  looks  out  of  window, 
then  falls  upon  her  knees,  crushed,] 

CHRISTINE.  This  is  too  much! 

ELIS.  Our  creditor,  he  who  can  take  our  home 
and  all  our  belongings  away  from  us.  He, 
Lindkvist,  who  has  come  here  and  ensconced 
himself  in  the  middle  of  his  web  like  a  spider, 
to  watch  the  flies  — 

CHRISTINE.  Let  us  ruu  away! 

ELIS  [At  window].  No  —  no  running  away! 
Now  when  you  grow  weak  I  become  strong  — 
now  he  is  coming  up  the  street  —  and  he  casts 
his  evil  eye  over  toward  his  prey.  — 

CHRISTINE.   Stand  aside,  at  least. 

ELIS  [Straightening  himself].  No,  he  amuses 
me.  His  face  hghts  up  with  pleasure,  as 
tho'  he  could  already  see  his  victims  in  his 
trap.  Come  on!  He  is  counting  the  steps 
up  to  our  gate  and  he  sees  by  the  open  door 
that  we  are  at  home.  —  But  he  has  met 
some  one  and  stands  there  talking.  —  He  is 


16  STRINDBERG 

talking  about  us,  for  he's  pointing  over 
here. 

CHRISTINE.  If  only  he  doesn't  meet  mother,  so 
that  she  can't  make  him  harsh  with  her  angry 
words !  —  Oh,  prevent  that,  Elis ! 

ELis.  Now  he  is  shaking  his  stick,  as  if  he  were 
protesting  that  in  our  case  mercy  shall  not 
pass  for  justice.  He  buttons  his  overcoat  to 
show  that  at  least  he  hasn't  yet  had  the  very 
clothes  on  his  back  taken  from  him.  I  can 
tell  by  his  mouth  what  he  is  saying.  What 
shall  I  reply  to  him.?  "  My  dear  sir,  you  are 
in  the  right.  Take  everything,  it  belongs  to 
you." 

CHRISTINE.   There  is  nothing  else  you  could  say. 

ELIS.  Now  he  laughs.  But  it  is  a  kind  laugh, 
not  a  malicious  one!  Perhaps  he  isn't  so 
mean  after  all,  but  he'll  see  that  he  gets 
every  penny  coming  to  him,  nevertheless !  If 
he  would  only  come,  and  stop  his  blessed 
prating.  —  Now,  he  is  swinging  his  stick 
again.  —  They  always  carry  a  stick,  men 
who  have  debtors,  and  they  always  wear  ga- 
loshes that  say  "  Swish,  swish,"  like  lashes 
through  the  air  —  [Christine  puts  hand 
against  his  heart. ^  Do  you  hear  how  my 
heart  beats  ?  It  sounds  like  an  ocean  steamer. 
Now,  thank  Heaven,  he's  taking  his  leave 
with  his  squeaking  galoshes !  "  Swish,  swish," 
like  a  switch!  Oh,  but  he  wears  a  watch 
charm!  So  he  can't  be  utterly  poverty- 
stricken.    They  always  have  watch  charms  of 


EASTER  17 

carnelian,  like  dried  flesh  that  they  have  cut 
out  of  their  neighbors'  backs.  Listen  to  the 
galoshes.  "  Angry,  angrier,  angriest,  swish, 
swish."  Watch  him!  The  old  wolf!  He 
sees  me !  He  sees  me !  He  bows !  He  smiles ! 
He  waves  his  hand  —  and  \^Sinks  down  near 
the  writing  table,  weeping~\  he  has  gone  by! 

CHRISTINE.  Praise  be  to  God ! 

ELis  [^Rising^ .  He  has  gone  by  —  but  he  will 
come  again.     Let's  go  out  in  the  sunshine. 

CHRISTINE.  And  what  about  dining  with  Peter .'* 

ELis.  As  I  am  not  invited,  I  cannot  go.  For 
that  matter,  what  should  I  do  there  in  the 
festivity !  Just  go  and  meet  an  unfaithful 
friend !  I  should  only  make  a  pretense  of  not 
being  hurt  by  what  he  has  done. 

CHRISTINE.  I'm  glad,  for  then  you  will  stay 
here  with  us. 

ELis.  I'd  rather  do  that,  as  you  know.  Shall 
we  go? 

CHRISTINE.  Yes,  this  way. 

[^Goes  towards  left.  As  Elis  passes  Benja- 
min he  puts  his  hand  on  Benjamin's  shoul- 
der.1 

EMS.   Courage,  boy ! 

[Benjamin  hides  his  face  in  his  hands.^ 

ELIS  [Takes  the  birch  rod  from  the  dining 
table  and  puts  it  behind  the  looking-glass]. 
It  wasn't  an  olive  branch  that  the  dove  was 
carrying  —  it  was  a  birch  rod ! 

[They  go  out.] 
[Eleonora  comes  in  from  back:   she  is  six- 


18  STRINDBERG 

teen,  with  braids  down  her  back.  She  car- 
ries an  Easter  lily  in  a  pot.  Without  see- 
ing, or  pretending  not  to  see  Benjamin, 
she  puts  the  lily  on  the  dining  table  and 
then  goes  and  gets  a  water-bottle  from  the 
sideboard  and  waters  the  plant.  Then  seats 
herself  near  dining  table  right  opposite 
Benjamin  and  contemplates  him  and  then 
imitates  his  gestures  and  movement s.~\ 
[Benjamin  stares  at  her  in  astonishment.^ 
ELEONORA   [Fotnts    to    lily'].      Do    you    know 

what  that  is  ? 
BENJAMIN   [Boyishly,  simply].     It's  an  Easter 
lily  —  that's  easy  enough  ;    but  who  are  you? 
ELEONORA   [Sweetly,    sadly].      Well,    who    are 

you? 
BENJAMIN.  My   name  is   Benjamin   and  I   live 

here  with  Mrs.  Heyst. 
ELEONORA.   Indeed!     My  name  is  Eleonora  and 

I  am  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Heyst. 
BENJAMIN.  How  strauge  no  one  ever  said  any- 
thing about  you ! 
ELEONORA.  People  do  not  talk  about  the  dead! 
BENJAMIN.  The  dead? 

ELEONORA.  I  am  dead  civilly,  for  I  have  com- 
mitted a  very  bad  deed. 

BENJAMIN.    You! 

ELEONORA.  Ycs,  I  speut  a  trust  fund;  but  that 
wasn't  so  much,  for  it  was  money  as  ill-gotten 
as  ill-spent  —  but  that  my  poor  old  father 
should  be  blamed  for  it  and  be  put  in  prison 
—  you  see,  that  can  never  be  forgiven. 


EASTER  19 

BENTAMiN.  So  strangely  and  beautifully  you 
talk !  And  I  never  thought  of  that  —  that 
my  inheritance  might  have  been  ill-gotten. 

ELEONORA.  One  should  not  confine  human  be- 
ings, one  should  free  them. 

BENJAMIN.   You  havc  freed  me  from  a  delusion. 

ELEONORA.  You  are  a  charity  pupil? 

BENJAMIN.  Yes,  it  is  my  sorrowful  lot  to  have 
to  live  upon  the  charity  of  this  poor  fam- 

ELEONORA.  You  must  uot  use  harsh  words  or 
I  shall  have  to  go  away.  I  am  so  sensitive  I 
cannot  bear  anything  harsh.  Nevertheless 
it's  my  fault  that  you  are  unhappy. 

BENJAMIN.  Your  father's  fault,  you  mean. 

ELEONORA.  That  is  the  same  thing,  for  he  and 
I  are  one  and  the  same  person.  \_Pause.^  — 
Why  are  you  so  dejected.'* 

BENJAMIN.  I  have  had  a  disappointment ! 

ELEONORA.  Should  you  be  downcast  on  that  ac- 
count.'* "  Rod  and  punishment  bring  wisdom, 
and  he  who  hates  punishment  must  perish  —  " 
What  disappointment  have  you  had-f* 

BENJAMIN.  I  have  failed  in  my  Latin  examina- 
tion —  altho'  I  was  so  sure  I  would  pass. 

ELEONORA.  Just  SO ;  you  were  so  sure,  so  sure, 
that  you  would  even  have  laid  a  wager  that 
you  would  get  thro'  it. 

BENJAMIN.   I  did  have  a  bet  on  it. 

ELEONORA.  I  thought  SO.  You  scc  that's  why 
it  happened  —  because  you  were  so  sure. 

BENJAMIN.  Do  you  think  that  was  the  reason? 


20  STRINDBERG 

ELEONORA.  Certainly  it  was!  Pride  goeth  be- 
fore a  fall! 

BENJAMIN.   I  shall  remember  that  the  next  time. 

ELEONORA.  That  is  a  worthy  thought ;  those 
who  are  pleasing  to  God  are  of  humble  spirit. 

BENJAMIN.   Do  you  read  the  Bible  .^ 

ELEONORA.  Yes,  I  read  it ! 

BENJAMIN.  I  mean,  are  you  a  believer.'^ 

ELEONORA.  Yes,  I  mean  that  I  am.  So  much 
so  that  if  you  should  speak  wickedly  about 
God,  my  benefactor,  I  would  not  sit  at  the 
same  table  with  you. 

BENJAMIN.  How  old  are  you.'' 

ELEOI^ORA.  For  me  there  is  no  time  nor  space. 
I  am  everywhere  and  whensoever.  I  am  in 
my  father's  prison,  and  in  my  brother's 
school-room.  I  am  in  my  mother's  kitchen 
and  in  my  sister's  little  shop  far  away.  When 
all  goes  well  with  my  sister  and  she  makes 
good  sales  I  feel  her  gladness,  and  when  things 
go  badly  with  her  I  suffer  —  but  I  suffer 
most  when  she  does  anything  dishonest.  Ben- 
jamin,  your  name  is  Benjamin,  because  you 
are  the  youngest  of  my  friends;  yes,  all 
human  beings  are  my  friends,  and  if  you 
will  let  me  adopt  you,  I  will  suffer  for  you 
too. 

BENJAMIN.  I  don't  quite  understand  the  words 
you  use,  but  I  think  I  catch  the  meaning  of 
your  thoughts.  And  I  will  do  whatever  you 
want  me  to. 

ELEONORA.  Will  you  begin  then  by  ceasing  to 


EASTER  21 

judge  human  beings,  even  when  they  are  con- 
victed criminals  — 

BENJAMIN.  Yes,  but  I  Want  to  have  a  reason 
for  it.    I  have  read  philosophy,  you  see. 

ELEONORA.  Oh,  have  you !  Then  you  shall  help 
me  explain  this  from  a  great  philosopher. 
He  said,  "  Those  that  hate  the  righteous,  they 
shall  be  sinners." 

BENJAMIN.  Of  course  all  logic  answers  that  in 
the  same  way,  that  one  can  be  doomed  to 
commit  crime  — . 

ELEONORA.  And  that  the  crime  itself  is  a  pun- 
ishment. 

BENJAMIN.  That  is  pretty  deep !  One  would 
think  that  that  was  Kant  or  Schopenhauer. 

ELEONORA.  I  dou't  know  them. 

BENJAMIN.  What  book  did  you  read  that  in.'' 

ELEONORA.  In  the  Holy  Scripture. 

BENJAMIN.  Truly.''  Are  there  such  things  in 
it.? 

ELEONORA.  What  an  ignorant,  neglected  child 
you  are !    If  I  could  bring  you  up  ! 

BENJAMIN.  Little  you! 

ELEONORA.  I  dou't  bclIeve  there  is  anything 
very  wicked  about  you.  You  seem  to  me  more 
good  than  bad. 

BENJAMIN.  Thank  you. 

ELEONORA  \^Risiiig].  You  must  never  thank 
me  for  an^^thing.  Remember  that.  —  Oh, 
now  my  father  is  suffering.  They  are  unkind 
to  him.  [Stands  as  tho'  listening.]  Do  you 
hear  what  the  telephone  wires  ai  -  humming.'' 


22  STRINDBERG 

—  those  are  harsh  words,  which  the  soft  red 
copper  does  not  hke  —  when  people  slander 
each  other  thro'  the  telephone  the  copper 
moans  and  laments  —  [Severely^  and  every 
word  is  written  in  the  book  —  and  at  the 
end  of  time  comes  the  reckoning! 

BENJAMIN.  You  are  so  severe ! 

ELEONORA.  I?     Not  I!     How  should  I  dare  to* 
be?     1,1? 

[^She  goes  to  the  stove,  opens  it,  and  takes 
out  several  torn  pieces  of  white  letter  paper 
and  puts  them  on  the  dining  table.^ 

BENJAMIN.  [Rises  and  looks  at  the  pieces  of 
paper  which  Eleonora  is  putting  together.^ 

ELEONORA  [To  her  Self].  That  people  should 
be  so  thoughtless  as  to  leave  their  secrets  in 
the  stove!  Whenever  I  come  I  always  go 
right  to  the  stove!  But  I  don't  do  it  ma- 
liciously —  I  wouldn't  do  anything  like  that, 
for  then  I  should  feel  remorse. 

BENJAMIN.  It  is  from  Peter,  who  writes  and  asks 
Christine  to  meet  him.  I  have  been  expecting 
that  for  a  long  time. 

ELEONORA  [Putting  her  hands  over  the  bits  of 
paper].  Oh,  you,  what  have  you  been  ex- 
pecting? Tell  me,  you  evil-minded  being,  who 
believes  nothing  but  bad  of  people.  This  let- 
ter could  not  mean  anything  wrong  to  me, 
for  I  know  Christine,  who  is  going  to  be  my 
sister  sometime.  And  that  meeting  will  avert 
misfortune  for  brother  Elis.  Will  you  prom- 
ise me  to  say  nothing  of  this,  Benjamin? 


EASTER  23 

BENJAMIN.  I  don't  exactly  think  I  should  like 
to  talk  much  about  it ! 

ELEONORA.  People  who  are  suspicious  become  so 
unjust.  They  think  they  are  so  wise,  and 
they  are  so  foolish !  —  But  what  is  all  this  to 
me! 

BENJAMIN.  Yes,  why  are  you  so  inquisitive.? 

ELEONORA.  You  See  that  is  my  illness  —  that  I 
must  know  all  about  everything  or  else  I  be- 
come restless  — 

BENJAMIN.  Know  about  everything  .f' 

ELEONORA.  That  is  a  fault  which  I  cannot  over- 
come.    And  I  even  know  what  the  birds  say. 

BENJAMIN.  But  they  can't  talk? 

ELEONORA.  Havcu't  you  heard  birds  that  peo- 
ple have  taught  to  talk? 

BENJAMIN.  Oh,  yes  —  that  people  have  taught 
to  talk ! 

ELEONORA.  That  is  to  say  they  can  talk.  And 
we  find  those  that  have  taught  themselves  or 
are  like  that  instinctively  —  they  sit  and 
listen  without  our  knowing  it  and  then  they 
repeat  these  things  afterward.  Just  now  as 
I  was  coming  along  I  heard  two  magpies  in 
the  walnut  tree,  who  sat  there  gossiping. 

BENJAMIN.  How  funny  you  are!  But  what 
were  they  saying? 

ELEONORA.  "  Peter,"  said  one  of  them,  "  Ju- 
das," said  the  other.  "  The  same  thing," 
said  the  first  one.  "  Fie,  Fie,  Fie,"  said  the 
other.     But  have  you  noticed  that  the  night- 


24  STRINDBERG 

ingales  only  sing  in  the  grounds  of  the  deaf 

and  dumb  asylum  here? 
BENJAMIN.  Yes,  they  do  say  that's  so.     Why 

do  they  do  that.? 
ELEONORA.  Because  those  who  have  hearing  do 

not  hear  what  the  nightingales  say:   but  the 

deaf  and  dumb  hear  it ! 
BENJAMIN.  Tell  me  some  more  stories. 
ELEONORA.  Ycs,  if  you  are  good. 

BENJAMIN.    How  gOod? 

ELEONORA.  If  you  will  never  be  exacting  about 
words  with  me,  never  say  that  I  said  so  and 
so,  or  so  and  so.  Shall  I  tell  you  more  about 
birds  .^^  There  is  a  wicked  bird  that  is  called 
a  rat-hawk:  as  you  may  know  by  its  name,  it 
lives  on  rats.  But  as  it  is  an  evil  bird  it  has 
hard  work  to  catch  the  rats.  Because  it  can 
say  only  one  single  word,  and  that  a  noise 
such  as  a  cat  makes  when  it  says  "  miau." 
Now  when  the  rat -hawk  says  "  miau  "  the 
rats  run  and  hide  themselves  —  for  the  rat- 
hawk  doesn't  understand  what  it  is  saying  — 
so  it  is  often  without  food,  for  it  is  a  wicked 
bird !  Would  you  like  to  hear  more?  Or  shall 
I  tell  you  something  about  flowers?  Do  you 
know  when  I  was  ill  I  was  made  to  take  hen- 
bane, which  is  a  drug  that  has  the  power  to 
make  one's  eyes  magnify  like  a  microscope. 
Well,  now  I  see  farther  than  others,  and  I  can 
see  the  stars  in  the  daylight ! 

BENJAMIN.  But  the  stars  are  not  up  there  then, 
are  they? 


EASTER  25 

ELEONORA.  How  funnj  you  are !  The  stars  are 
always  up  there  —  and  now,  as  I  sit  facing 
the  west,  I  can  see  Cassiopea  like  a  W  up 
there  in  the  middle  of  the  Milky  Way.  Can 
you  see  it? 

BENJAMIN.  No,  indeed  I  can't  see  it. 

ELEONORA.  Let  me  call  your  attention  to  this, 
that  some  can  see  that  which  others  do  not  — 
do  not  be  too  sure  of  your  own  eyes  there- 
fore !  Now  I'm  going  to  tell  you  about  that 
flower  standing  on  the  table:  it  is  an  Easter 
lily  whose  home  is  in  Switzerland;  it  has  a 
calyx  which  drinks  sunlight,  therefore  it  is 
yellow  and  can  soothe  pain.  When  I  was  pass- 
ing a  florist's,  just  now,  I  saw  it  and  wanted 
to  make  a  present  of  it  to  brother  Elis.  When 
I  tried  to  go  into  the  shop  I  found  the  door 
was  locked  —  because  it  is  confirmation  day. 
But  I  must  have  the  flower  —  I  took  out  my 
keys  and  tried  them  —  can  you  believe  it,  my 
door  key  worked !  I  went  in.  You  know  that 
flowers  speak  silently !  Every  fragrance  ut- 
tered a  multitude  of  thoughts,  and  those 
thoughts  reached  me:  and  with  my  magnify- 
ing eyes  I  looked  into  the  flowers'  workrooms, 
which  no  one  else  has  ever  seen.  And  they 
told  me  about  their  sorrows  which  the  careless 
florist  causes  them  —  mark  you,  I  did  not  say 
cruel,  for  he  is  only  thoughtless.  Then  I  put 
a  coin  on  the  desk,  with  my  card,  took  the 
Easter  lily  and  went  out. 

BENJAMIN.  How    thoughtlcss !      Think    if    the 


26  STRINDBERG 

flower     is     missed     and     the     money     isn't 
found  ? 

ELEONORA.  That's  true !    You  are  right. 

BENJAMIN.  A  coin  Can  easily  disappear,  and  if 
they  find  your  card  it's  all  up  with  you. 

ELEONORA.  But  no  oue  would  believe  that  I 
wanted  to  take  anything. 

BENJAMIN  \_Looking  hard  at  her~\.  They 
wouldn't  ? 

ELEONORA  \^Rising^.  Ah!  I  know  what  you 
mean !  Like  father,  like  child !  How  thought- 
less I  have  been !  Ah !  That  which  must  be, 
must  be!     [jSif*.]     It  must  be  so. 

BENJAMIN.   Couldn't  we  say  that  — 

PLEONORA.  Hush!  Let's  talk  of  other  things! 
Poor  Elis !  Poor  all  of  us !  But  it  is  Easter, 
and  we  ought  to  suffer.  Isn't  there  a  recital 
tomorrow?  [^Benjamin  nods  his  head.^  And 
they  give  Haydn's  Seven  Words  on  the  Cross ! 
"  Mother,  behold  thy  son  !  " 

[She  weeps  with  face  in  hands. ^ 

BENJAMIN.  What  kind  of  illness  have  you  had.? 

ELEONORA.  An  illuess  that  is  not  mortal  unless 
it  is  God's  will!  I  expected  good,  and  evil 
came;  I  expected  light,  and  darkness  came. 
How  was  your  childhood,  Benjamin.? 

BENJAMIN.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Kind  of  tire- 
some!   And  yours.? 

ELEONORA.  I  ncver  had  any.  I  was  bom  old. 
I  knew  everything  when  I  was  born,  and  when 
I  was  taught  anything  it  was  only  like  remem- 
bering.   I  knew  human  weaknesses  when  I  was 


EASTER  27 

four  years  old,  and  that's  why  people  were 
horrid  to  me. 

BENJAMIN.  Do  you  kuow,  I,  too,  seem  to  have 
thought  everything  that  you  say. 

ELEONORA.  I  am  sure  you  have.  What  made 
you  think  that  the  coin  I  left  at  the  florist's 
would  be  lost  ? 

BENJAMIN.  Because  what  shouldn't  happen  al- 
ways does  happen. 

ELEONORA.  Have  you  noticed  that  too.^  Hush, 
some  one  is  coming.  \^Looks  toward  back.'\ 
I  hear  —  Elis,  oh,  how  good !  My  only  friend 
on  earth!  \_She  darkens. ~\  But  —  he  didn't 
expect  me !  And  he  will  not  be  glad  to  see  me 
—  no,  he  won't  be,  I  am  sure  he  won't  be. 
Benjamin,  have  a  pleasant  face  and  be  cheer- 
ful when  my  poor  brother  comes  in.  I  am 
going  in  here  while  you  prepare  him  for  my 
being  here.  But  no  matter  what  he  says,  don't 
you  say  anything  that  would  hurt  him,  for 
that  would  make  me  unhappy.  Do  you  prom- 
ise?    \_Benjamin  nods,^     Give  me  your  hand. 

BENJAMIN  [Reaches  out  his  hand^. 

ELEONORA  \_Kisses  him  on  the  top  of  his  head^. 
So!  Now  you  are  my  little  brother.  God 
bless  and  keep  you!  [Goes  toward  the  left 
and  as  she  passes  Elis'  overcoat  she  pats  it 
lovingly  on  the  sleeve. ~\     Poor  Elis ! 

[She  goes  out  L.] 

ELIS   [In  from  hack,  trouhled'\. 

MRS.  HEYST   [In  from  kitchen^. 

ELIS.  Oh,  so  there  you  are,  mother. 


«8  STRINDBERG 

MRS.  HEYST.  Was  it  jou?    I  thought  I  heard  a 

strange  voice ! 
ELis.  I  have  some  news.     I  met  our  lawyer  in 

the  street. 

MRS.  HEYST.    Well? 

Eiiis.  The  case  is  going  to  the  superior  court  — 
and  to  gain  time  I've  got  to  read  all  the  min- 
utes of  the  case. 

MRS.  HEYST.  Well,  that  won't  take  you  long. 

ELis  [Pointing  to  the  legal  documents  on  the 
writing  desk^.  Oh,  I  thought  that  was  all 
over  with,  and  now  I  must  weary  myself  by 
going  through  all  that  torture  again  —  all 
the  accusations,  all  the  testimony  and  all  the 
evidence,  all  over  again  ! 

MRS.  HEYST.  Yes,  but  the  superior  court  will 
free  him ! 

ELIS.   No,  mother,  he  has  confessed. 

MRS.  HEYST.  But  there  may  be  some  mistakes 
in  the  trial  which  count.  When  I  talked  with 
our  lawyer  he  said  there  might  be  some  tech- 
nical errors  —  I  think  that's  what  he  called 
them. 

ELIS.  He  said  that  to  console  you. 

MRS.  HEYST  \Coldly'\.  Are  you  going  out  to 
dinner .? 

ELIS.    No. 

MRS.  HEYST.  Oh,  SO  you've  changed  your  mind 
again. 

ELIS.  Yes. 

MRS.  HEYST.  Oh,  you  are  so  changeable ! 


EASTER  29 

Eus.  I  know  it,  but  I  am  tossed  about  like  a 
chip  in  a  high  sea. 

MRS.  HEYST.  I  surelj  thought  I  heard  a  strange 
voice  that  I  half  recognized.  But  I  must 
have  been  mistaken.  \^Poi7its  to  Elis'  over- 
coat.^ That  coat  ought  not  to  hang  there,  I 
said.  [Goes  out  R.] 

ELis  \_Goes  to  L.  Sees  the  lily  on  table^.  Where 
did  that  plant  come  from  ? 

BENJAMIN.  There  was  a  younec  lady  here  with  ih 

ELis.  Young  lady!    What's  that?    Who  was  it? 

BENJAMIN.     It  was  

ELis.  Was  it  —  my  sister? 

BENJAMIN.  Yes. 

ELis   [Sinks  down  near  tabW].  [Pause.] 

Did  you  talk  with  her? 
BENJAMIN.  Yes,  indeed! 
ELIS.  Oh,  God,  is   there  more  to  be  endured? 

Was  she  angry  with  me? 
BENJAMIN.   She?      No,    she    was    so    sweet,    so 

gentle. 
ELIS.  How  wonderful!     Did  she  talk  about  me? 

Was  she  very  vexed  with  me? 
BENJAMIN.   No,  on  the  contrary   she  said  you 

were  her  best,  her  only  friend  on  earth. 
ELIS,  What  a  strange  change ! 
BENJAMIN.  And  when  she  went,  she  patted  your 

coat  on  the  sleeve  — 
ELIS.  Went?    Where  has  she  gone? 
BENJAMIN   [Pointmg  to  the  window  door].     In 

there ! 
ELIS.   She  is  in  there  then? 


30  STRINDBERG 

BENJAMIN.    Yes. 

ELis.  You  look  SO  happy  and  cheerful,  Ben- 
jamin. 

BENJAMIN.   She  talked  so  beautifully  to  me. 

ELIS.   What  did  she  talk  about? 

BENJAMIN.  She  told  me  some  of  her  own  stories 
—  and  a  lot  about  religion. 

ELIS   \_Rising~\.    Which  made  you  happy? 

BENJAMIN.  Yes,  indeed! 

ELIS.  Poor  Eleonora,  who  is  so  unfortunate  her- 
self and  yet  can  make  others  happy!  [Goes 
to  door  left,  hesitating.~\     God  help  us! 


ACT    II. 

Good  Friday  evening.  The  music  before  and 
thro*  the  act,  Haydn's  Sieben  Worte. 
Largo  No.  I.  "  Pater  dimitte  illis.'*  Same 
scene.  Curtains  are  drawn,  lighted  up  by 
electric  light  in  the  street.  The  hanging 
lamp  is  lighted.  On  dining  table  a  small 
lamp,  also  lighted.  There  is  a  glimmer  from 
the  lighted  stove.  Elis  and  Christine  are  sit- 
ting at  the  sewing  table.  Benjamin  and 
Eleonora  are  seated  at  dining  table  reading, 
opposite  each  other,  with  the  small  lamp  be- 
tween them  —  Eleonora  has  a  shawl  over  her 
shoulders. 

They  are  all  dressed  in  black.  The  papers  that 
Elis  brought  in  the  First  Act  are  on  the 
writing  table  in  a  disorderly  condition,  the 
Easter  lily  stands  on  sewing  table.  An  old 
clock  stands  on  the  dining  table.  Now  and 
then  one  sees  shadows  of  people  passing  by  in 
the  street. 

The  cathedral  organ  is  heard  faintly.  —  The 
following  scene  must  be  played  softly. 

ELIS   [Softly  to  Christine^ .     Yes  —  it's  Good 

Friday  —  Long  Friday  they  call  it  in  some 

countries.     Ah  —  yes  —  it  is  long.     And  the 

snow  has  softened  the  noises  in  the  street  like 

31 


S2  STRINDBERG 

straw  spread  before  the  house  of  the  dying. 

Not  a  sound  to  be  heard  —  \^Mtisic  louder^ 

only  the  cathedral  organ  — 

[A  long  mause.^ 
CHRISTINE.  Mother  must  have  gone  to^'Sspers. 
?:lis.  Yes.  —  She  never  goes  to  high  mass  any 

more./  The  cold  glances  people  give  her  hurt 

her  too  much. 
CHRISTINE.  It's    queer    about    these    people  — 

they  sort  of  demand  that  we  should  keep  ou. 

of  the  way,  and  they  even  see  fit  to  — 
ELis.  Yes  —  and  perhaps  they  are  right.  — 
CHRISTINE.  On  account  of  the  wrong-doing  of 

one,  the  whole  family  is  excommunicated  — 
ELis.   Yes  —  that  is  the  way  things  go. 

[Eleonora  pushes  the  lamp  over  to  Ben- 
jamin  that  he  may  see  better.^ 
ELIS   [Noticing  them'\.     Look  at  them! 
CHRISTINE.  Isn't  it  beautiful  .^^     How  well  they 

get  along  together. 
ELIS.  How   fortunate   it   is   that   Eleonora   has 

grown  so  calm  and  contented.      Oh,  that  it 

might  only  last ! 
CHRISTINE.  Why  shouldn't  it  last? 
ELIS.  Because  —  happiness     doesn't    last    very 

long  usually. 
CHRISTINE.  Elis! 
ELIS.  Oh,  I  am  afraid  of  everything  today. 

[Benjamin  moves  the  lamp  slowly  over  to 
Eleonora' s  side.^ 
CHRISTINE.  Look  at  them!  [Pause. 1^ 

ELIS.   Have    you   noticed   the    change   in    Ben- 


EASTER  33 

jamin?  His  fierce  defiance  has  given  way  to 
quiet  submissiveness. 

CHRISTINE.  It's  her  doing.  Her  whole  being 
seems  to  give  out  sweetness. 

ELis.  S^^e  has  brought  with  her  the  spirit  of 
peace,  that  goes  about  unseen  and  exhales 
tranquillity.  Even  mother  seems  to  be  af- 
fected by  her.  When  she  saw  her  a  calmness 
seemed  to  come  over  her  that  could  never 
have  been  expected. 

CHRISTINE.  Do  you  think  that  she  is  really  re- 
covered now.? 

ELIS.  Yes.  If  it  weren't  for  this  over-sensitive- 
ness. Now  she  is  reading  the  story  of  the 
crucifixion  and  some  of  the  time  she  is  weep- 
ing. 

CHRISTINE.  We  used  to  read  it  at  school,  I  re- 
member, on  Wednesdays,  when  we  fasted. 

ELIS.  Don't  talk  so  loud  —  she  will  hear  you. 

CHRISTINE.  Not  now  —  she  is  so  far  away. 

ELis.  Have  you  noticed  the  quiet  dignity  that 
has  come  into  Benjamin's  face.'^ 

CHRISTINE.  That's  on  account  of  suffering. 
Too  much  happiness  makes  everything  com- 
monplace. 

ELis.  Don't  you  think  it  may  be  —  love.''  Don't 
you  think  that  those  little  — 

CHRISTINE.  Sh  —  sh  —  don't  touch  the  wings 
of  the  butterfly  —  or  it  will  fly  away. 

ELIS.  They  must  be  looking  at  each  other,  and 
only  pretending  to  read.  I  haven't  heard 
them  turn  over  any  pages. 


34  STRINDBERG 

CHRISTINE.    Hush! 

[Eleonora  rises,  goes  on  tip-toe  to  Ben- 
jamin and  puts  her  shawl  over  his  shoulders. 
Benjamin  protests  mildly  but  gives  in  to 
her  wish  —  Eleonora  returns   to   her  seat 
and  pushes  the  lamp  over  to  Benjamin^s 
side.~\ 
CHRISTINE.   She    doesn't    know    how    well    she 
wishes.     Poor  little  Eleonora —         [Pause.] 
ELis   \_Rises^.     Now  I  must  return  to  the  law 

papers. 
CHRISTINE.  Do    you    think    anything    will    be 

gained  by  going  over  all  that  again? 
ELis.  Only  one  thing.  That  is  to  keep  up 
mother's  hope.  I  only  pretend  to  read  — 
but  a  word  now  and  then  pricks  me  like  a 
thorn  in  the  eye.  The  evidence  of  the  wit- 
nesses,   the    summaries  —  father's    confession 

—  like  this :  "  the  accused  admitted  with 
tears  "  —  tears  —  tears  —  so  many  tears  — 
and  these  papers  with  their  official  seals  that 
remind  one  of  false  notes  and  prison  bars  — 
the  ribbons  and  red  seals  —  they  are  like  the 
five  wounds  of  Christus  —  and  public  opinion 
that  will  never  change  —  the  endless  anguish 

—  this  is  indeed  fit  work  for  Good  Friday ! 
Yesterday  the  sun  was  shining  —  and  in  our 
fancy  we  went  out  to  the  country,  —  Chris- 
tine, think  if  we  should  have  to  stay  here  all 
summer. 

CHRISTINE.  We   would    save    a    great    deal    of 
money  —  but  it  would  be  disappointing. 


EASTER  35 

ELis.  I  couldn't  live  thro'  it  —  I  have  stayed 
here  three  summers  —  and  It's  like  a  dead  city 
to  me.  The  rats  come  out  from  the  cellars 
and  alleys  —  while  the  cats  are  out  spending 
the  summer  in  the  country.  And  all  the  old 
women  that  couldn't  get  away  sit  peeking 
through  the  blinds  gossiping  about  their 
neighbors  — "  See,  he  has  his  winter  suit 
on  "  —  and  sneer  at  the  worn-down  heels  of 
the  passers-by.  And  from  the  poor  quarters 
wretched  beings  drag  themselves  out  of  their 
holes,  cripples,  creatures  without  noses  or 
ears,  the  wicked  and  unfortunate  —  filling  the 
parks  and  squares  as  if  they  had  conquered 
the  city  —  there  where  the  well-dressed  chil- 
dren just  played,  while  their  parents  or 
maids  looked  on  and  encouraged  them  in  their 
frolics.     I  remember  last  summer  when  I  — 

CHRISTINE.  Oh,  Elis  —  Elis  —  look  forward  — 
look  forward. 

ELIS.  Is  it  brighter  there? 

CHRISTINE.  Let  us  hopc  so. 

ELIS  \_Sits  at  writing  tahlel.  If  it  would  only 
stop  snowing  out  there,  so  we  could  go  out 
for  a  walk! 

CHRISTINE.  Dearest  Elis,  yesterday  you  wanted 
night  to  come,  so  that  we  might  be  shielded 
from  the  hateful  glances  of  the  people.  You 
said,  "  Darkness  is  so  kind,"  and  that  it's  like 
drawing  the  blanket  over  one's  head. 

ELIS.   That  only  goes  to  prove  that  my  misery 


36  STRINDBERG 

is  as  great  one  way  as  the  other.  {^Reading 
papers.']  The  worst  part  of  the  suit  is  all  the 
questioning  about  father's  way  of  living.  — 
It  says  here  that  we  gave  big  dinner  parties. 
—  One  witness  practically  says  that  my 
father  was  a  drunkard  —  no,  that's  too  much. 
No.  No,  I  won't  —  as  tho'  —  I  must  go 
thro'  it,  I  suppose.  —  Aren't  you  cold? 

CHRISTINE.  No.  But  it  isu't  warm  here.  Isn't 
Lina  home? 

ELis.   She's  gone  to  church. 

CHRISTINE.  Oh,  yes,  that's  so.  But  mother  will 
soon  be  home. 

ELis.  I  am  always  afraid  to  have  her  come  home. 
She  has  had  so  many  experiences  of  people's 
evil  and  malice. 

CHRISTINE.  There  is  a  strain  of  unusual  melan- 
choly in  your  family,  Elis. 

ELIS.  And  that's  why  none  but  the  melancholy 
have  ever  been  our  friends.  Light-hearted 
people  have  always  avoided  us  —  shrunk 
from  us. 

CHRISTINE.  There  is  mother,  going  in  the 
kitchen  door. 

ELis.  Don't  be  impatient  with  her,  Christine. 

CHRISTINE.  Impatient!  Ah,  no,  it's  worse  for 
her  than  any  of  us.  But  I  can't  quite  under- 
stand her. 

ELIS.  She  is  always  trying  to  hide  our  disgrace. 
That's  why  she  seems  so  peculiar.  Poof 
mother ! 


EASTER  37 

MRS.  HEYST  {^Enters,  dressed  in  black,  psalm 
book  in  hand,  and  handkerchief].  Good 
evening,  children. 

ALL.  Good  evening,  mother  dear. 

MRS.  HEYST.  Why  are  you  all  in  black,  as  tho' 
you  were  in  mourning?  \_Pause.] 

ELis.   Is  it  still  snowing,  mother? 

MRS.    HEYST.    It's    slcctiug    UOW.        [GoCS    OVBT   to 

Eleonora.]       Aren't     you     cold     out    here? 

\_Eleonora  shakes  her  head.]     Well,  my  little 

one,   you   are   reading   and   studying,   I   see. 

\^To  Benjamin.']     And  you  too?     Well,  you 

won't  overdo. 

[Eleonora    takes   her  mother's   hand   and 
carries  it  to  her  lips.] 
MR5.    HEYST    [^Hiding   her   feelings].      So,   my 

child  —  so  —  SO  — 
ELIS.  Have  you  been  to  vespers,  mother? 
MRS.   HEYST.  Yes,  but   they  had  some  visiting 

pastor,  and  I  didn't  like  him,  he  mumbled  his 

words  so. 
ELis.  Did  you  meet  any  one  you  knew? 
MRS.  HEYST.  Yes,  morc  is  the  pity. 
ELIS.  Then  I  know  whom  — 
MRS.  HEYST.  Ycs,  Liudkvist.     And  he  came  up 

to  me  and  — 
ELIS.  Oh,  how  terrible,  how  terrible  — 
MRS.  HEYST.  He  askcd  how  things  were  going  — 

and    imagine    my    fright  —  he    asked    if   he 

might  come  and  see  us  this  evening. 
ELIS.   On  a  holy  day? 
MRS.  HEYST.  I  was  speechless  —  and  he,  I  am 


38  STRINDBERG 

afraid,  mistook  my  silence  for  consent.  So 
he  may  be  here  any  moment. 

ELis   \_Rises~\.     Here? 

MRS.  HEYST.  He  Said  he  wished  to  leave  a  paper 
of  some  sort  which  was  important. 

ELis.  A  warrant!  He  wants  to  take  our  fur- 
niture. 

MRS.  HEYST.  But  he  looked  so  queer.  I  didn't 
quite  understand  him. 

ELIS.  Well,  then  —  let  him  come  —  he  has  right 
and  might  on  his  side,  and  we  must  bow  down 
to  him.  —  We  must  receive  him  when  he 
comes. 

MRS.  HEYST.  If  I  could  ouly  escape  seeing  him ! 

ELIS.  Yes,  you  must  stay  in  the  house. 

MRS.  HEYST.  But  the  furniture  he  cannot  take. 
How  could  we  live  if  he  took  the  things  away.'^ 
One  cannot  live  in  empty  rooms. 

ELIS.  The  foxes  have  holes,  the  birds  nests  — 
there  are  many  homeless  ones  who  sleep  under 
the  sky. 

MRS.  HEYST.  That's  the  way  rogues  should  be 
made  to  live  —  not  honest  people. 

ELIS  \^By  the  writing  table^.  I  have  been  read- 
ing it  all  over  again. 

MRS.  HEYST.  Did  you  find  any  faults  .f*  What 
was  it  the  lawyer  called  them  ?  Oh  —  tech- 
nical errors? 

ELIS.  No.    I  don't  think  there  are  any. 

MRS.  HEYST.  But  I  met  our  lawyer  just  now  and 
he  said  there  must  be  some  technical  errors  — 
a  challengeable  witness,  an  unproven  opinion 


EASTER  39 

—  or  a  contradiction,  he  said.     You  should 
read  carefully. 

ELis.  Yes,  mother  dear,  but  it's  somewhat  pain- 
ful reading  all  this  — 

MRS.  HEYST.  But  uow  Hsteu  to  this.  I  met  our 
lawyer,  as  I  said,  and  he  told  me  also  that  a 
burglary  had  been  committed  here  in  town 
yesterday,  and  in  broad  daylight. 

l^Eleonora  and  Benjamin  start  and  listen.^ 

ELIS.  A  burglary  !    Where? 

MRS.  HEYST.  At  the  florist's  on  Cloister  street. 
But  the  whole  thing  is  very  peculiar.  It's 
supposed  to  have  happened  this  way:  the 
florist  closed  his  place  and  went  to  church  — 
where  his  son  —  or  was  it  his  daughter?  — 
was  being  confirmed.  When  he  returned, 
about  three  o'clock  —  or  perhaps  it  was  four, 
but  that  doesn't  matter  —  well,  he  found  the 
door  of  the  store  wide  open  and  his  flowers 
were  gone  —  at  least  a  whole  lot  of  them. 
\_Theij  all  look  at  her  questioningly.^  Well, 
anyway,  a  yellow  tulip  was  gone,  which  he 
missed  first. 

ELIS.  A  yellow  tulip?  Had  it  been  a  lily  I 
would  have  been  afraid. 

MRS.  HEYST.  No,  it  was  a  tulip,  that's  sure,  — 
well,  they  say  the  police  are  on  the  track  of 
the  thief  anyway. 

[Eleonora  has  risen  as  if  to  speak,  but  is 
quieted  hy  Benjamin,  who  goes  to  her  and 
whispers  something  to  her.^ 

MRS.  HEYST.  Think  of  it,  on  Holy  Thursday! 


40  STRINDBERG 

When  young  people  are  being  confirmed  at 
the  church,  to  break  into  a  place  and  steal! 
Oh,  the  town  must  be  full  of  rogues,  and 
that's  why  they  throw  innocent  people  into 
prison ! 

ELis.  Do  you  know  who  it  is  they  suspect  ? 

MRS.  UEYST.  No.  But  it  was  a  peculiar  thief. 
He  didn't  take  any  money  from  the  cash 
drawer. 

CHRISTINE.  Oh,  that  this  day  were  ended ! 

MRS.  HEYST.  And  if  Lina  would  only  return  — 
lPause.~\  Oh,  I  heard  something  about  the 
dinner  Peter  gave  last  night.  What  do  you 
think  —  the  Governor  himself  was  there. 

ELis.  The  Governor  at  Peter's  — ?  I'm  aston- 
ished. Peter  has  always  avowed  himself 
against  the  Governor's  party. 

MRS.  HEYST.  He  must  have  changed  then. 

ELIS.  He  wasn't  called  Peter  for  nothing,  it 
seems. 

MRS.  HEYST.  But  what  have  you  got  against  the 
Governor.? 

ELis.  He  is  against  progress  —  he  wants  to  re- 
strict the  pleasures  of  the  people,  he  tries  to 
dictate  to  the  boards  of  education  —  I've  felt 
his  interference  in  my  school. 

MRS.  HEYST.  I  Can't  Understand  all  that  —  but 
it  doesn't  matter.  Anyhow  the  Governor 
made  a  speech,  they  say,  and  Peter  thanked 
him  heartily. 

ELIS.  And  with  great  feeling,  I  can  fancy,  and 
denied  his  master,  saying,  "  I  know  not  this 


EASTER  41 

man,"  and  again  the  cock  crew.  Wasn't  the 
Governor's  name  Pontius  and  his  surname 
Pilate? 

[Eleonora  starts  as  if  to  speak  but  Benja- 
min quiets  her  again.^ 

MRS.  HEYST.  You  mustn't  be  so  bitter,  Elis. 
Human  beings  are  weak  and  we  must  come 
in  contact  with  them. 

ELis.   Hush,  —  I  hear  Lindkvist  coming. 

MRS.  HEYST.  What.?  Can  you  hear  him  in  all 
this  snow? 

ELis.  Yes,  I  can  hear  his  stick  striking  the  pave- 
ment —  and  his  squeaking  galoshes.  Please, 
mother,  go  into  the  house. 

MRS.  HEYST.  No.  I  shall  stay  and  tell  him  a  few 
things. 

ELIS.  Dear,  dear  mother,  you  must  go  in  or  it 
will  be  too  painful. 

MRS.  HEYST  \_Rising,  with  scornl.  Oh,  may  the 
day  that  I  was  bom  be  forgotten  — 

CHRISTINE.  Don't  blaspheme,  mother. 

MRS.  HEYST.  Should  not  the  lost  have  this  trouble 
rather  than  that  the  worthy  should  suffer  tor- 
ture ? 

ELIS.  Mother! 

MRS.  HEYST.  Oh,  God !  Why  have  you  forsaken 
me  and  my  children?  [Goes  out  L.] 

ELIS.  Oh  —  do  you  know  that  mother's  indiffer- 
ence and  submission  torture  me  more  than  her 
wrath  ? 

CHRISTINE.  Her  submission  is  only  pretended  or 
make-believe.      There  was   something  of  the 


42  STRINDBERG 

roar  of  the  lioness  in  her  last  words.     Did 
you  notice  how  big  she  became? 
ELis   [At  window,  listening].     He  has  stopped 

—  perhaps  he  thinks  the  time  ill-chosen.  — 
But  that  can't  be  it  —  he  who  could  write 
such  terrible  letters,  —  and  always  on  that 
blue  paper !  I  can't  look  at  a  blue  paper  now 
without  trembling. 

CHRISTINE.  What  will  you  tell  him  —  what  do 

you  mean  to  propose.^ 
ELIS.  I  don't  know.    I  have  lost  all  my  reasoning 

powers.  —  Shall  I  fall  on  my  knees  to  him 

and  beg  mercy  —  can  you  hear  him  ?     I  can't 

hear  anything  but  the  blood  beating  in  my 

ears. 
CHRISTINE.  Let  us  face  the  worst  calmly  —  he 

will  take  everything  and  — 
ELIS.  Then  the  landlord  will  come  and  ask  for 

some  other  security,  which  I  cannot  furnish. 

—  He  will  demand  security,  when  the  furni- 
ture is  no  longer  here  to  assure  him  of  the 
rent. 

CHRISTINE  [Peeking  through  the  curtain].  He 
isn't  there  now.  —  He  is  gone ! 

ELIS  [Rushing  to  window] .  He's  gone  ?  —  Do 
you  know,  now  that  I  think  of  Lindkvist,  I 
see  him  as  a  good-natured  giant  who  only 
scares  children.  How  could  I  have  come  to 
think  that.? 

CHRISTINE.  Oh,  thoughts  come  and  go  — 

ELIS.  How  lucky  that  I  was  not  at  that  dinner 
yesterday  —  I    would    surely    have    made    a 


EASTER  43 

speech  against  the  Governor,  and  so  I  would 

have  spoiled  everything  for  us. 
CHRISTINE.  Do  you  realize  that  now.? 
ELis.  Thanks  for  your  advice,  Christine.     You 

knew  your  Peter. 
CHRISTINE.  My  Peter?  — 
ELis.   I  meant  —  my  Peter.  —  But  —  look  —  he 

Is  here  again,  woe  unto  us ! 

[^One  can  see  the  shadow  of  Lindkvist  on 
the  curtain,  who  is  nearing  slowly.  The 
shadow  gets  larger  and  larger,  until  it  is 
giant-like.  They  stand  in  fear  and  trem- 
ble.^ 
ELIS.  Look,  —  the  giant  —  the  giant  that  wants 

to  swallow  us. 
CHRISTINE.   Now   It's   time   to   laugh,   as   when 

reading  fairy-tales. 
ELIS.   I  can't  laugh  any  more. 

[The  shadow  slowly  disappears.^ 
CHRISTINE.  Look    at   the   stick   and   you   must 

laugh.  [Pause. ^ 

ELIS   [Brightlyl.      He's    gone  —  he's    gone  — 

yes,  I   can  breathe  again  now,   as  he  won't 

return  until  tomorrow.     Oh,  the  relief! 
CHRISTINE.  Yes,  and  tomorrow  the  sun  will  be 

shining,  —  the    snow   will   be    gone   and    the 

birds  will  be  singing  —  eve  of  the  resurrec- 
tion ! 
ELIS.  Yes,  tell  me  more  like  that  —  I  can  see 

everything  you  say. 
CHRISTINE.   If  you  could  but  see  what  Is  in  my 

heart.  If  you  could  see  my  thoughts  and  my 


W  S'T'KIN'1>BERG 

good  intentions,  my  inmost  prayer,  Elis  — 
Elis  —  when  I  now  ask  —  {^Hesitates.J^ 

ELIS.  What?    Tell  me. 

CHRISTINE.  When  I  beg  you  now  to  — 

ELIS   [Alarmed].    Tell  me  — 

CHRISTINE.  It's  a  test.  Will  you  look  at  it  as 
a  test.f^ 

ELIS.  A  test.?    Well  then. 

CHRISTINE.  Let  me  —  do  let  me  —  No,  I  daren't. 

[Eleonora  listens.] 

ELIS.  Why  do  you  torture  me? 

CHRISTINE.  I'll  regret  it,  I  know.  So  be  it ! 
Elis,  let  me  go  to  the  recital  this  evening. 

ELIS.  What  recital? 

CHRISTINE.  Haydn's  "  Seven  Words  on  the 
Cross,"  at  the  cathedral. 

ELIS.  With  whom? 

CHRISTINE.  Alice. 

ELIS.  And? 

CHRISTINE.  Peter! 

ELIS.  With  Peter? 

CHRISTINE.  See,  now  you  frown.  I  regret  tell- 
ing you,  but  it's  too  late  now. 

ELIS.  Yes.  It  is  somewhat  late  now,  but  ex- 
plain — 

CHRISTINE.  I  prepared  you,  told  you  that  I 
couldn't  explain,  and  that's  the  reason  I 
begged  your  boundless  faith. 

ELIS  [Mildly].  Go.  I  trust  you.  But  I  suffer 
to  know  that  you  seek  the  company  of  a 
traitor. 

CHRISTINE.  I  realize  that,  but  this  is  to  be  a  test. 


EASTER  46 

Eiiis.  Which  I  cannot  endure. 

CHRISTINE.    You  mUSt. 

ELis.  I  would  like  to,  but  I  cannot.  But  you 
must  go  nevertheless. 

CHRISTINE.  Your  hand ! 

ELis  [Giving  his  hand].  There —  [The  tele- 
phone rings;  Elis  goes  to  it.]  Hello  !  —  No 
answer.  Hello  !  —  No  answer  but  my  own 
voice.  —  Who  is  it.?  —  That's  strange.  I 
only  hear  the  echo  of  my  own  words. 

CHRISTINE.  That  might  be  possible. 

ELIS  [Still  at  'phone].  Hello!  —  But  this  is 
terrible!  [Hangs  up  receiver.]  Go  now, 
Christine,  and  without  any  explanations, 
without  conditions.     I  shall  endure  the  test. 

CHRISTINE.  Yes,  do  that  and  all  will  be  well. 

ELis.  I  will.  —  [Christine  starts  R.]  Why  do 
you  go  that  way.'' 

CHRISTINE.  My  coat  and  hat  are  in  there.  Good- 
bye for  now.  [Goes  out  R,] 

ELIS,   Good-bye,    my    friend,    [Pause]    forever. 

[He  rushes  out  L.] 

ELEONORA.  God  help  us,  what  have  I  done  now? 
The  police  are  after  the  guilty  one,  and  if  I 
am  discovered — then — [With  a  shriek] 
they'll  send  me  back  there.  [Pause.]  But  I 
mustn't  be  selfish.  Oh,  poor  mother  and  poor 
Elis! 

Benjamin  [Childishly].  Eleonora,  you  must 
tell  them  that  I  did  it. 

ELEONORA.  Could  you  make  another's  guilt 
yours,  you  child  ? 


46  STRINDBERG 

BENJAMIN.  That's  easy,  when  one  knows  he's  in- 
nocent. 

EI.EONORA.  One  should  never  deceive. 

BENJAMIN.  No,  but  let  me  telephone  to  the  flor- 
ist and  explain  to  him. 

ELEONORA.  No,  I  did  wrong,  and  I  must  take  the 
consequences.  I  have  awakened  their  fear  of 
burglars,  and  I  must  be  punished. 

BENJAMIN.  But  what  if  the  police  come  in  ? 

ELEONORA.  That  would  be  dreadful  —  but  what 
must  be,  must  be.  Oh,  that  this  day  were 
ended !  [Takes  clock  from  table  and  puts  the 
hands  forward.']  Dear  old  clock,  go  a  little 
faster  —  tick,  tick,  tick.  [^The  clock  strikes 
eight.]  Now  it's  eight.  [Moves  hands  again.] 
Tick,  tick,  tick.  [Business  with  clock.]  Now 
it's  nine  —  ten  —  eleven  —  twelve  —  o'clock. 
Now  it  is  Easter  eve,  and  the  sun  will  soon 
be  rising,  and  then  we'll  color  the  Easter 
eggs. 

BENJAMIN.  You  cau  make  time  fly,  can't 
you.? 

ELEONORA.  Think,  Benjamin,  of  all  the  anem- 
ones and  violets  that  had  to  stay  in  the  snow 
all  winter  and  freeze  there  in  the  darkness. 

BENJAMIN.   How  they  must  suffer! 

ELEONORA.  Night  is  hardest  for  them  —  they 
are  afraid  of  the  darkness,  but  they  can't  run 
away,  and  so  they  must  stay  there  thro'  the 

'  long  winter  night,  waiting  for  spring,  which 
is  their  dawn.  Everybody  and  everything 
must  suff^er,  but  the  flowers  suffer  most.    Yes, 


EASTER  47 

and  the  song-birds,  they  have  returned; 
where  are  they  to  sleep  tonight? 

BENJAMIN   [Childishly^.     In  the  hollow  trees. 

ELEONORA.  There  aren't  hollow  trees  enough  to 
hold  them  all.  I  have  only  noticed  two  hol- 
low trees  in  the  orchard,  and  that's  where  the 
owls  live,  and  they  kill  the  song-birds.  \_Elis 
is  heard  playing  the  piano  inside.  Eleonora 
and  Benjamin  listen  for  a  few  moment s.^^ 
Poor  Elis,  who  thinks  that  Christine  has  gone 
from  him,  but  I  know  that  she  will  return. 

BENJAMIN.  Why  don't  you  tell  him,  if  you 
know  ? 

EI.EONORA.  Because    Elis    must    suffer;     every 

one  should  suffer  on  Good  Friday,  that  they 

may  remember  Christ's  suffering  on  the  cross. 

[The   sound    of   a   policeman's   whistle   is 

heard  off  in  the  distance.^ 

ELEONORA   [Starts  up^-     What  was  that.? 

BENJAMIN.  Don't  you  know? 

ELEONORA.    No. 

BENJAMIN.  It's  the  police. 

ELEONORA.  Ah,  yes,  that's  the  way  it  sounded 
when  they  came  to  take  father  away  —  and 
then  I  became  ill.  —  And  now  they  are  com- 
ing to  take  me. 

BENJAMIN  [Rushing  to  the  door  and  guarding 
it'\.  No,  no,  they  must  not  take  you.  I 
shall  defend  you,  Eleonora. 

ELEONORA.  That's  very  beautiful,  Benjamin, 
but  you  mustn't  do  that. 

BENJAMIN   [Looking    thro'    curtain}.      There 


48  STRINDBERG 

are  two  of  them.  \_Eleonora  tries  to  push 
Benjamin  aside.  He  protests  mildly. '\  No, 
no,  not  you,  then  —  I  don't  want  to  live  any 
longer. 

ELEONOUA.  Benjamin,  go  and  sit  down  in  that 
chair,  child,  sit  down. 

\_Benjamin  obeys  much  against  his  zvilL] 

ELEONORA  [Peeps  thro'  curtain^.  Oh! 
[Laughs.^  It's  only  some  boys.  Oh,  we 
doubters!  Do  you  think  that  God  would  be 
angry,  when  I  didn't  do  any  harm,  only 
acted  thoughtlessly  ?  It  served  me  right  — 
I  shouldn't  have  doubted. 

BENJAMIN.  But  tomorrow  that  man  will  come 
and  take  the  things. 

EI.EONORA.  Let  him  come.  Then  we'll  go  out 
under  the  sky,  away  from  everything  — 
away  from  all  the  old  home  things  that  father 
gathered  for  us,  that  I  have  seen  since  I  was 
a  child.  Yes,  one  should  never  own  any- 
thing that  ties  one  down  to  earth.  Out,  out 
on  the  stony  ways  to  wander  with  bruised 
feet,  for  that  road  leads  upward.  That's  why 
it's  the  hard  road. 

BENJAMIN.  Now  you  are  so  serious  again! 

ELEONORA.  We  must  be  today.  But  do  you 
know  what  will  be  hardest  to  part  with.?  This 
dear  old  clock.  We  had  it  when  I  was  born 
and  it  has  measured  out  all  my  hours  and 
days.  [She  takes  the  clock  from,  tahle.^ 
Listen,  it's  like  a  heart  beating,  —  just  hke 
a   heart.  —  They    say    it    stopped    the   very 


EASTER  49 

hour  that  grandfather  died.  We  had  it  as 
long  ago  as  that.  Good-bye,  little  time- 
keeper, perhaps  you'll  stop  again  soon. 
[Putting  clock  on  table  again.^  Do  you 
know,  it  used  to  gain  time  when  we  had  mis- 
fortune in  the  house,  as  tho'  it  wished  to 
hasten  thro'  the  hours  of  evil,  for  our  sake 
of  course.  But  when  we  were  happy  it  used 
to  slow  down  so  that  we  might  enjoy  longer. 
That's  what  this  good  clock  did.  But  we 
have  another,  a  very  bad  one  —  and  now  it 
has  to  hang  in  the  kitchen.  It  couldn't  bear 
music,  and  as  soon  as  Elis  would  play  on  the 
piano  it  would  start  to  strike.  Oh,  you 
needn't  smile;  we  all  noticed  it,  not  I  alone, 
and  that's  why  it  has  to  stay  out  in  the 
kitchen  now,  because  it  wouldn't  behave.  But 
Lina  doesn't  like  it  either,  because  it  won't 
be  quiet  at  night,  and  she  cannot  time  eggs 
by  it.  When  she  does,  the  eggs  are  sure  to 
be  hard-boiled  —  so  Lina  says.  But  now  you 
are  laughing  again. 

BENJAMIN.  Yes,  how  can  I  help  — 

ELEONOBA.  You  are  a  good  boy,  Benjamin, 
but  you  must  be  serious.  Keep  the  birch 
rod  in  mind;    it's  hanging  behind  the  mirror. 

BENJAMIN.  But  you  Say  such  funny  things, 
that  I  must  smile.  And  why  should  we  be 
weeping  always? 

EiiEONORA.  Shall  we  not  weep  in  the  vale  of 
tears  ? 

BENJAMIN.    H'm. 


50  STRINDBERG 

ELEONORA.  You  would  rather  laugh  all  the 
time,  and  that's  why  trouble  comes  your  way. 
But  it's  when  you  are  serious  that  I  like  you 
best.     Remember  that.  \_Paii^e.~\ 

BENJAMIN.  Do  you  think  that  we  will  get  out 
of  this  trouble,  Eleonora.'* 

ELEONORA.  Yes,  most  of  it  will  take  care  of 
itself,  when  Good  Friday  is  over,  but  not  all 
of  it  —  today  the  birch  rod,  tomorrow 
the  Easter  eggs  —  today  snow  —  tomorrow 
thaw.  Today  death  —  tomorrow  life  — 
resurrection. 

BENJAMIN.  How  wisc  you  are! 

ELEONORA.  Evcu  uow  I  Can  feel  that  it  is  clear- 
ing outside  —  and  that  the  snow  is  melting 

—  I  can  smell  the  melting  snow.  And  to- 
morrow violets  will  sprout  against  walls 
facing  south.  The  clouds  are  lifting  —  I 
feel  it  —  I  can  breathe  easier.  Oh,  I  know 
so  well  when  the  heavens  are  clear  and  blue. 

—  Go  and  pull  the  shades  up,  Benjamin.  I 
want  God  to  see  us. 

[Benjamin    rises    and   obeys.      Moonlight 

streams  into  the  rooTw.] 

ELEONORA.  The  moou  is  full  —  Easter  moon ! 

But  you  know  it  is  really  the  sun  shining, 

although  the  moon  gives  us  the  light  —  the 

light! 


ACT    III. 

Easter  eve.  The  music  before  and  thro*  this 
act,  Haydn's  Siehen  Worte.  No.  5.  Adagio. 
Scene  the  same.  The  curtains  are  up.  The 
landscape  outside  is  in  a  grey  light.  There 
is  a  fire  in  the  stove.  The  doors  are  closed. 
Eleonora  is  seated  near  the  stove  with  a 
bunch  of  crocuses  in  her  hand.  Benjamin 
enters  from  R. 

ELEONORA.  Where  have  you  been  all  this  long 

time,  Benjamin? 
BENJAMIN.  It  hasn't  been  very  long. 
ELEONORA.  I  have  wanted  you  so ! 
BENJAMIN.  Have   you?     And  where  have  you 

been,  Eleonora? 
ELEONORA.  I  weut  dowu  street  and  bought  these 

crocuses,  and  now  I  must  warm  them.     They 

were  frozen.     Poor  dears ! 
BENJAMIN.  Yes.      It's   SO   chilly   today;    there 

isn't  a  bit  of  sunshine. 
ELEONORA.  The  suu  is  behind  the  fog.     There 

aren't  any  clouds,  just  sea-fog.     I  can  smell 

the  salt  in  the  air.  — 
BENJAMIN.  Did  you  see  any  birds  out  there? 
ELEONORA.  Ycs,  flocks  of  them,  starting  north 
51 


52  STRINDBERG 

for  their  summer  home.    And  not  one  will  fall 
to  the  earth  unless  God  wills  it. 
ELis   [^Enters  from  i?.].     Has  the  evening  pa- 
per come  yet.^ 

ELEONORA.    No,   EHs. 

\_Elis  starts  to  cross  the  room  —  when  he 
is  at  C.  Christine  enters  from  L.] 
CHRISTINE   [Without  noticing  Elisl^.     Has  the 

paper  come.^^ 
ELEONORA.  No,  it  hasu't  come. 

[Christine  crosses  room  and  goes  out  i?., 

passing  Elis,  who  goes  out  too.     Neither 

looks  at  the  other. ^ 

ELEONORA.  Huh !    how  cold  and  chilly !     Hate 

has    entered    this    house.      As    long   as    love 

reigned  one  could  bear  it,  but  now,  —  huh ! 

how  cold ! 

BENJAMIN.  Why   were   they   so   anxious   about 

the  evening  paper.? 
ELEONORA.  Dou't   you   kuow?      There   will   be 
something  in  it  about  — 

BENJAMIN.    WhM 

ELEONORA.  Everything!  The  theft,  the  police, 
and  more  too  — 

MRS.  HEYST   [From  R.'\.     Has  the  paper  come? 

ELEONORA.  No,  mother  dear. 

MRS.  HEYST  [As  shc  goes  out^.  Let  me  know 
first  when  it  does  come. 

ELEONORA.  The  paper,  the  paper!  Oh,  that 
the  print  shop  would  bum  down  or  that  the 
editor  were  taken  ill,  or  something  —  No, 
no.    I  mustn't  say  that.     I  mustn't.     Do  you 


EASTER  63 

know,  Benjamin,  I  was  with  my  father  last 
night. 

BENJAMIN   [^Surprisedli.     Last  night? 

EiiEONORA.  Yes,  while  I  slept.  And  then  I  was 
with  my  sister.  She  told  me  that  she  sold 
thirty  dollars'  worth  of  things  day  before 
yesterday,  and  that  she  had  earned  five  dol- 
lars for  herself. 

BENJAMIN.  That  wasn't  much. 

ELEONORA.  It's  a  great  deal,  Benjamin. 

BENJAMIN  l^Slyly^.  And  who  else  did  you 
meet  in  your  sleep  .'^ 

ELEONORA.  Why  do  you  ask  that?  You 
mustn't  try  to  tease  me,  Benjamin.  You 
would  like  to  know  my  secrets  —  but  you 
mustn't. 

BENJAMIN.  Well,  then  you  can't  know  my  se- 
crets either. 

ELEONORA  [Listening].  Can  you  hear  the  tele- 
phone wires  humming?  Now  the  paper  is 
out,  and  now  they  are  'phoning  each  other, 
"  Have  you  read  about  it  ?  "  —  "  Yes,  in- 
deed I  have !  "  —  "  Isn't  it  terrible?  " 

BENJAMIN.  What  is  terrible? 

EiiEONORA.  Everything.  Life  is  terrible,  but 
we  must  be  satisfied.  Think  of  Elis  and 
Christine.  They  love  each  other,  and  yet 
hate  has  come  between  them,  so  that  when 
they  walk  thro'  the  room  the  thermometer 
drops  several  degrees.  She  went  to  the  re- 
cital last  night  and  today  they  won't  speak 
to  each  other.     And  why,  —  why  ? 


54  STRINDBERG 

BENJAMIN.  Because  your  brother  is  jealous. 

ELEONORA.  Dou't  mention  that  word.  What 
do  we  know  about  it,  for  that  matter,  — 
more  than  that  it  is  disease  and  punishment.? 
One  must  never  touch  evil,  for  then  one  will 
surely  catch  it.  Look  at  Elis,  haven't  you 
noticed  how  changed  he  is  since  he  started  to 
read  those  papers.'^ 

BENJAMIN.  About  the  law-suit.? 

ELEONORA.  Yes.  It  is  as  if  evil  had  crept  into 
his  soul;  it  is  reflected  in  his  face  and  eyes. 
Christine  feels  this,  and  not  to  be  contam- 
inated by  it,  she  encases  herself  in  an  armor 
of  ice.  And  those  papers  —  if  I  could  only 
bum  them!  They  are  filled  with  meanness, 
falsehood  and  revenge.  Therefore,  my  child, 
you  must  keep  away  from  evil  and  unclean 
things,  both  with  your  lips  and  heart. 

BENJAMIN.   How  you  Understand  everything! 

ELEONORA.  Do  you  kuow  something  else  that 
I  feel.?  If  Elis  and  Christine  get  to  know 
that  I  bought  the  Easter  lily  in  that  unusual 
way,  they  will  — 

BENJAMIN.  What  will  they  do? 

ELEONORA.  They  will  send  me  back  —  there. 
Where  I  just  came  from.  Where  the  sun 
never  shines.  Where  the  walls  are  dark  and 
bare.  Where  one  hears  only  crying  and 
lamentation.  Where  I  sat  away  a  year  of  my 
life. 

BENJAMIN.  Where  do  you  mean? 

ELEONORA.  There,  where  one  is  tortured  more 


EASTER  55 

than  in  prison.    Where  the  unfortunate  dwell, 

where    unquiet    reigns,    where    despair    never 

sleeps,  and  whence  no  one  returns. 
BENJAMIN.  Worse    than    prison?      How    could 

that  be? 
ELEONORA.   In   prisou   one   is   tried  and   heard, 

but  there  in  that  place  no  one  listens.     Poor 

little  Easter  lily  that  was  the   cause  of  all 

this !     I  meant  so  well,  and  it  turned  out  so 

badly ! 
BENJAMIN.  But  don't  you  go  to  the  florist  and 

tell   him   how   it   happened.      You   would  be 

like  a  lamb  led  to  the  sacrifice. 
ELEONORA.  It  docsu't  complaiu  when  it  knows 

that  it  must  be  sacrificed,  and  doesn't  even 

seek  to  get  awa3^     What  else  can  /  do? 
Eiiis   [Enters  from  i?.,   a  letter  in  his  hand^. 

Hasn't  the  paper  come  yet? 
EI.EONORA.  No,  brother  dear. 
ELis    \_Turns  toward  kitchen  door^.     Lina  must 

go  out  and  get  an  evening  paper. 

l^Mrs.  Heyst  enters  from  R.,  Eleonora  and 
Benjamin  show  fear.] 
ELIS   \_To  Eleonora  and  Benjamin'].     Go   out 

for   a   few   moments.      I   want    to    speak   to 

mother. 

[Eleonora  and  Benjamin  go  out.] 
MRS.  HEYST.  Have  you  received  word  from  the 

asylum  ? 
ELis.  Yes. 

MRS.  HEYST.  What  do  they  want? 
ELis.  They  demand  Eleonora's  return.  — 


56  STRINDBERG 

MRS.'  HEYST.  I  won't  allow  it.  She's  my  own 
child  — 

ELis.  —  And  my  sister. 

MRS.  HEYST.  What  do  you  mean  to  do? 

ELIS.  I  don't  know.     I  can't  think  any  more. 

MRS.  HEYST.  But  I  Can.  Eleonora,  the  child  of 
sorrow,  has  found  happiness,  tho'  it's  not  of 
this  world.  Her  unrest  has  turned  to  peace, 
which  she  sheds  upon  others.  Sane  or  not, 
she  has  found  wisdom.  She  knows  how  to 
carry  life's  burdens  better  than  I  do,  better 
than  all  of  us.  Am  /  sane,  for  that  matter.'^ 
Was  I  sane  when  I  thought  my  husband  inno- 
cent altho'  I  knew  that  he  was  convicted 
by  the  evidence,  and  that  he  confessed.'^  And 
you,  Elis  —  are  you  sane  when  you  can't  see 
that  Christine  loves  you,  when  you  believe 
that  she  hates  you.^^ 

ELIS.  How  can  I  be  in  the  wrong. ^^  Didn't  she 
go  out  with  my  false  friend  last  night  .^^ 

MRS.  HEYST.  She  did,  but  you  knew  about  it. 
Why  did  she  go?  Well,  you  should  be  able 
to  divine  the  reason. 

ELIS.  No.     I  cannot. 

MRS.  HEYST.  You  Will  uot.  Very  well,  then  you 
must  take  the  consequences. 

[^The  kitchen  door  opens  a  little  and 
Lindas  hand  is  seen  with  evening  'paper. 
Mrs.  Heyst  takes  paper  and  gives  it  to 
Elis.^ 

ELIS.  That  was  the  last  misfortune.  With 
Christine   I   could  carry   the   other  burdens, 


EASTER  67 

but  now  the  last  support  has  been  pulled  away 
and  I  am  falling. 

MKS.  HEYST.  Well,  fall  then  —  but  land  right 
side  up,  and  then  you  can  start  again.  Any 
news  worth  reading  in  the  paper.? 

ELis.  I  don't  know.  I  am  afraid  to  look  at  it 
today. 

MES.  HEYST.  Givc  it  to  me,  then.    I  am  not  — 

ELis.  No,  wait  a  moment  — 

MRS.  HEYST.  What  are  you  afraid  of.'* 

ELIS.  The  worst  of  all. 

MRS.  HEYST.  The  worst  has  happened  so  many 
times  that  it  doesn't  matter.  Oh,  my  boy, 
if  you  knew  my  life  —  if  you  could  have 
seen  your  father  go  down  to  destruction,  as 
I  did,  and  I  couldn't  warn  all  those  to  whom 
he  brought  misfortune!  I  felt  like  his  ac- 
complice when  he  went  down  —  for,  in  a  way, 
I  knew  of  the  crime,  and  if  the  judge  hadn't 
been  a  man  of  great  feeling,  who  realized 
my  position  as  a  wife  and  mother,  I  too  would 
have  been  punished. 

ELIS.  What  was  really  the  cause  of  father's 
fall?  I  have  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand. 

MRS.  HEYST.  Pride  —  pride.  Which  brings  us 
all  down. 

ELIS.  But  why  should  the  innocent  suffer  for 
his  wrong-doing? 

MRS.  HEYST.  Hush.  No  more.  [She  takes 
paper  and  reads.  Elis  walks  up  and  down, 
worried    and    nervous.^      Ah,    what's    this? 


58  STRINDBERG 

Didn't  I  say  that  there  was  a  yellow  tulip 

among  the  things  stolen  at  the  florist's  ? 
Eus.  Yes,  I  remember. 
MRS.   HEYST.  But  here  it  says  that  it  was  an 

Easter  lily. 
EUS   \_With  fear~\.     An  Easter  lily.?     Does   it 

say  that.? 

[They  look  at  each  other.    A  long  pause. 1^ 
MRS.  HEYST  [Sinldug  into  a  chair^.     It's  Eleo- 

nora.     Oh,  God  keep  us ! 
ELis.  It  wasn't  the  end  then. 
MRS.  HEYST.   Prison  or  the  asylum  — 
ELis.  But   it's   impossible.      She   couldn't   have 

done  this.     Impossible ! 
MRS.   HEYST.  And  now   the   family   name  must 

be  dragged  in  disgrace  again. 
ELis.  Do  they  suspect  her.? 
MRS.  HEYST.  They  say  that  suspicion  leads  in 

a  certain  direction  —  it's  pretty  plain  where. 
ELis.  I  must  talk  to  her. 
MRS.   HEYST.  Don't   speak   harshly   to   her.      T 

can   stand  no   more.      Oh,   she   is   lost  —  re- 
gained but  lost  again !     Speak  kindly  to  her. 

[She  goes  out  R.] 
Eus   [At  door  L.].     Oh, —  [Calls]   Eleonora, 

come  out  here.     I  want  to  speak  to  you. 
ELEONORA  [Commg  m,  her  hair  down].     I  was 

just  putting  up  my  hair. 
ELis.  Never  mind  that.      Tell  me,  little  sister, 

where  did  you  get  that  flower.? 
ELEONORA.  I  took  it  from  — 
ELIS.  Oh,  God ! 


EASTER  69 

[Eleonora  hangs  her  head,  criished,  with 
her  arms  over  her  breast.'] 

ELEONORA.  But  I  —  I  left  money  there,  beside 
the  — 

ELis.  You  left  the  money?  You  paid  for  it, 
then? 

ELEONORA.  Yes  and  no.  It's  provoking,  but  I 
haven't  done  anything  wrong  —  I  meant  well 
—  do  you  believe  me  ? 

ELis.  I  believe  you,  little  sister  —  but  the  news- 
papers don't  know  that  you  are  innocent. 

ELEONORA.  Dear  me!  Then  I  must  suffer  for 
this  also.  [She  bends  her  head  forward;  her 
hair  falls  over  her  face.]  What  do  they  want 
to  do  with  me  now?  Let  them  do  what  they 
will! 

BENJAMIN  [Enters  from  L.,  beside  himself]. 
No,  no.  You  mustn't  touch  her.  She  hasn't 
done  any  harm  —  I  know  it  —  as  it  was  I  — 
I  —  I  —  [He  breaks  down]  who  did  it. 

ELEONORA.  Don't  believe  what  he  is  saying  — 
it  was  I. 

ELis.  What  shall  I  believe  —  whom  shall  I  be- 
lieve ? 

BENJAMIN.    Me ! 

ELEONORA.  Me,  me ! 

BENJAMIN.  Let  me  go  to  the  police  — 

ELis.  Hush,  Benjamin,  hush. 

ELEONORA.    No,  I'll   gO I'll   gO. 

ELIS.  Quiet,  children.     Here  comes  mother. 

[Mrs.  Heyst  enters  R.,  takes  Eleonora  in 
her  arms  and  kisses  her  tenderly.] 


60  STRINDBERG 

MRS.  HEYST  {^Stirvedl.  My  dear,  dear  child! 
You  have  come  back  to  your  mother  and  you 
shall  stay  with  me. 

ELEONORA.  You  kiss  me,  mother .?  You  haven't 
kissed  me  in  years.    Why  just  now? 

MRS.  HEYST.  Why,  bccause  now  —  because  the 
florist  is  out  there  and  asks  pardon  for  ma- 
king all  this  fuss.  —  The  money  has  been 
found,  and  your  card  and  — 

[Eleonora  springs  into  the  arms  of  Elis 
and  kisses  him.  Then  she  goes  to  Benja- 
min and  kisses  him  quickly  on  the  fore- 
head.^ 

ELEONORA  [To  Benjamin'].  You  good  child, 
who  wanted  to  suffer  for  my  sake !  Why  did 
you  do  it.? 

BENJAMIN.  Because  —  I  —  I  —  like  —  you  so 
much,  Eleonora. 

MRS.  HEYST.  Well,  my  children,  put  on  some 
things  now  and  go  out  into  the  orchard.  It's 
clearing  up. 

ELEONORA.  Oh,  it's  clearing  - —  and  soon  the 
sun  will  be  shining ! 

[She  takes  Benjamin's  hand  and  they  both 
go  out  L.] 

ELIS.  Mother,  can't  we  throw  the  rod  into  the 
fire  soon? 

MRS.  HEYST.  Not  yet.  There  is  still  some- 
thing — 

ELIS.  Is  it  —  Lindkvist? 

MRS.  HEYST.  Yes.  He  is  out  there.  But  he 
looks  so  queer  and  bent  on  talking  to  you. 


EASTER  61 

Too  bad  he  talks  so  much  and  always  about 
himself. 
ELis.  Let  him  come.     Now  that  I  have  seen  a 
ray  of  sunlight,  I  am  not  afraid  to  meet  the 
giant.     Let  him  come. 
MRS.  HEYST.   But  don't  irritate  him.     Providence 
has  placed  our  destiny  in  his  hands  —  and  he 
who  humbleth  himself  shall  be  exalted  and  he 
who     exalteth     himself  —  well  —  you     know 
what  happens  to  him. 
ELis.   I  know.    Listen  —  the  galoshes  —  squeak, 
squeak,  squeak !     Does  he  mean  to  come  in 
with  them  on.?    And  why  not.?    They  are  his 
own  carpets. 

\_There  are  three  raps  on  door  i?.] 
MRS.  HEYST.  EHs,  think  of  us  all. 
Eus.  I  do,  mother. 

\_Mrs.  Heyst  opens  door  R.  Lindkvist  en- 
ters, Mrs.  Heyst  goes  out.  He  is  an  elderly 
man  of  serious,  almost  tragic  aspect,  with 
black  bushy  eyebrows.  Round,  black- 
rimmed  eye-glasses.  He  carries  a  stout 
stick  in  his  hand,  he  is  dressed  in  black, 
with  fur  coat,  and  over  his  shoes  wears 
galoshes  that  squeak. '\ 
MNDKvisT   [After  looking  at  Elis~\.     My  name 

is  Lindkvist. 
ELis   [Reserved],     Heyst  is  my  name  —  won't 
you  sit  down? 

[Lindkvist  sits  in  chair  R.  of  sewing  table 
—  looks  at  Elis  with  a  stem  eye.] 


I  -A. 


62  STRINDBERG 


ELis  [After  a  paiise'\.  How  can  I  be  of  serv- 
ice? 

LiNDKvisT  \_With  good  humor^.  H'm.  Last 
evening  I  had  the  honor  to  notify  you  of  my 
intended  visit,  but  thinking  it  over,  and  re- 
alizing that  it  was  a  holy  evening,  I  refrained 
from  coming  then,  as  my  visit  is  not  of  a 
social  nature  —  and  I  don't  talk  business  on 
a  holy  evening. 

ELIS.  We  are  very  grateful. 

LiNDKVisT.  We  are  not  grateful.  [Pause. ^ 
However,  day  before  yesterday  I  made  a 
casual  call  on  the  Governor.  —  [Stops  to 
notice  how  Elis  takes  it.~\  Do  you  know  the 
Governor.? 

ELis   [Carelessly^.     I  haven't  that  honor. 

LINDKVIST.  Then  you  shall  have  that  honor.  — 
We  spoke  about  your  father. 

ELIS.  No  doubt. 

LINDKVIST  [Takes  out  a  paper  and  lays  it  down 
on  tablel.  And  I  got  this  paper  from  him, 
from  the  Governor. 

ELIS.  I've  been  expecting  this  for  some  time, 
but  before  you  go  any  further  allow  me  to 
ask  you  a  question. 

LINDKVIST.  Go  ahead. 

ELIS.  Why  don't  you  put  that  warrant  in  the 
hands  of  the  executors,  so  we  could  escape 
this  long  and  painful  business .? 

LINDKVIST.  So  —  so  —  my  young  man. 

ELIS.  Young  or  not,  I  ask  no  mercy,  only 
justice. 


EASTER  63 

LiNDKVisT.  Well,  well,  no  mercy  —  no  mercy  — 
eh?  Do  you  see  this  paper  that  I  put  here 
on  the  corner  of  the  table? 

ELis.  Yes. 

MNDKviST.  Ah,  —  now  I  put  it  back  again. 
[^Puts  it  back  in  his  pocket. '\  Well,  then, 
justice,  only  justice.  Listen,  my  young 
friend.  Once  upon  a  time,  I  was  deprived  of 
my  money  and  in  a  disagreeable  manner. 
When  I  wrote  you  a  courteous  letter,  asking 
how  much  time  you  needed,  you  saw  fit  to 
answer  with  an  uncourteous  note  —  and 
treated  me  as  if  I  were  a  usurer,  a  plunderer 
of  widows  and  children  —  altho'  I  was  really 
the  one  plundered,  and  you  belonged  to  the 
plunderer's  party.  But  as  I  was  more  judi- 
cious, I  contented  myself  with  answering 
your  note  courteously,  but  to  the  point.  You 
know  my  blue  paper,  eh?  I  see  you  do.  And 
I  can  put  the  seals  on,  too,  if  I  choose  — 
but  I  don't,  not  yet. 

\^Looks  around  the  room.^ 

ELIS.  As  you  please;  the  things  are  at  your 
disposal. 

LINDKVIST.  I  wasn't  looking  at  the  furniture. 
I  looked  to  see  if  your  mother  was  in  the 
room.  She  no  doubt  loves  justice  as  much 
as  you  do? 

ELIS.  Let  us  hope  so. 

LINDKVIST.  Good.  Do  you  know  that  if  justice, 
which  you  value  so  highly,  had  its  course. 


64  STRINDBERG 

your  mother,  who  only  knew  of  your  father's 
criminal  act,  could  have  been  imprisoned? 

ELis.  No !   No ! 

LiNDKVisT.  Yes!  Yes!  And  it  isn't  too  late 
even  now. 

ELIS   \_Rises^,     My  mother  — 

\_Lindkvist  takes  out  another  paper,  also 
blue,  and  places  it  on  the  table.  ] 

LiNDKviST.  See  —  now  I  put  down  another 
paper,  and  it's  blue,  too,  but  as  yet  —  no 
seals. 

ELIS.  Oh,  God,  —  my  mother !  "  As  ye  sow, 
so  shall  ye  reap." 

LINDKVIST.  Yes,  my  young  lover  of  justice, 
"  As  ye  sow,  so  shall  ye  reap."  That's  the 
way  it  goes.  Now,  if  I  should  put  this  ques- 
tion to  myself:  "You,  Joseph  Lindkvist, 
born  in  poverty  and  brought  up  in  denial  and 
work,  have  you  the  right  at  your  age  to 
deprive  yourself  and  children  —  mark  you, 
your  children  —  of  the  support,  which  you 
thro'  industry,  economy  and  denial,  —  mark 
you,  denial,  —  saved  penny  by  penny  ?  What 
will  you  do,  Joseph  Lindkvist,  if  you  want 
justice?  You  plundered  no  one  —  but  if  you 
resent  being  plundered,  then  you  cannot  stay 
in  this  town,  as  no  one  would  speak  to  the 
terrible  creature  who  wants  his  own  hard- 
earned  money  returned."  So  you  see  there 
exists  a  grace  which  is  finer  than  justice,  and 
that  is  mercy. 


EASTER  65 

Eus.  You  are  right.  Take  everything.  It  be- 
longs to  you. 

LiNDKvisT.  I  have  right  on  my  side,  but  I  dare 
not  use  it. 

ELis.  I  shall  think  of  your  children  and  not 
complain. 

LINDKVIST.  Good.  Then  I'll  put  the  blue  paper 
away  again.  —  And  now  we'll  go  a  step  fur- 
ther. 

ELIS.  Pardon  me,  but  do  they  intend  to  accuse 
my  mother? 

LINDKVIST.  We  will  go  a  step  further  first  — 
I  take  it  that  you  don't  know  the  Governor 
personally.? 

ELIS.   No,  and  I  don't  want  to  know  him. 

[^Lindkvist    takes    out    paper    again    and 
shakes  it  warningly  at  ElisJ] 

LINDKVIST.  Don't,  don't  say  that.  The  Gov- 
ernor and  your  father  were  friends  in  their 
youth,  and  he  wishes  to  see  and  know  you. 
You  see.  "  As  ye  sow,"  and  so  forth,  in 
ever3rthing  —  everything.  Won't  you  go  to 
see  him? 

ELIS.    No. 

LINDKVIST.  But  the  Governor  — 

ELIS.  Let  us  change  the  subject. 

LINDKVIST.  You  must  speak  courteously  to  me, 
as  I  am  defenseless.  You  have  public  opinion 
on  your  side,  and  I  have  only  justice  on  mine. 
What  have  you  got  against  the  Governor? 
He  doesn't  like  this  and  that,  what  some 
people  would  call  pleasure.  —  But  that  be- 


66  STRINDBERG 

longs  to  his  eccentricities,  and  we  needn't 
exactly  respect  his  eccentricities,  but  we  can 
overlook  them  and  hold  to  fundamental  facts 
as  human  beings ;  and  in  the  crises  of  human 
life  we  must  swallow  each  other  skin  and  hair, 
as  the  saying  goes.  But  will  you  go  to  see 
the  Governor? 

ELis.  Never. 

LiNDKvisT.  Are  you  that  sort  of  creature? 

ELIS.  Yes. 

LiNDKvisT  \^Rises,  walks  about  waving  his  blue 
paper.]  That's  too  bad  —  too  bad.  —  Well, 
then  I  must  start  from  the  other  end.  —  A 
revengeful  person  has  threatened  to  take 
legal  steps  against  your  mother. 

ELis.  What  do  you  say? 

LiNDKvisT.  Go  to  sec  the  Governor. 

ELIS.    No. 

LiNDKvisT  [Taking  Elis  by  the  shoulders]. 
Then  you  are  the  most  miserable  being  that 
I  have  ever  met  in  all  my  experience.  —  And 
now  I  shall  go  and  see  your  mother. 

Eus.   No,  no.     Don't  go  to  her. 

LiNDKvisT.  Will  you  go  to  see  the  Governor 
then? 

ELIS.  Yes. 

LINDKVIST.  Tell  me  again  and  louder. 

ELis.  Yes. 

LINDKVIST  [Giving  Elis  blue  paper].  Then 
that  matter  is  over  with  —  and  there  is  an 
end  to  that  paper,  and  an  end  to  your 
troubles  on  that  score. 


EASTER  67 

[Elis  takes  paper  without  looking  at  it.'\ 

LiNDKviST.  Then  we  have  number  two  —  that 
was  number  one.  Let  us  sit  down.  [They 
sit  as  before.^  You  see  —  if  we  only  meet 
each  other  half-way,  it  will  be  so  much 
shorter.  —  Number  two  —  that  is  my  claim 
on  your  home.  —  No  illusions  —  as  I  cannot 
and  will  not  give  away  my  family's  common 
property,  I  must  have  what  is  owing  me,  to 
the  last  penny. 

ELis.  I  understand  — 

LINDKVIST.  So.     You  Understand  that? 

ELis.   I  didn't  mean  to  offend  you. 

LINDKVIST.  No.  I  gather  as  much.  [He  lifts 
his  glasses  and  looks  at  Elis.^  The  wolf,  the 
angry  wolf  —  eh  ?  The  rod  —  the  rod  — 
the  giant  of  the  mountains,  who  does  not  eat 
children  —  only  scares  them  —  eh  ?  And  I 
shall  scare  you  —  yes,  out  of  your  senses. 
Every  piece  of  furniture  must  come  out  — 
and  I  have  the  warrant  in  my  pocket.  And 
if  there  isn't  enough  —  you'll  go  to  jail, 
where  neither  sun  nor  stars  shine.  —  Yes,  I 
can  eat  children  and  widows  when  I  am  irri- 
tated. —  And  as  for  public  opinion  ?  Bah ! 
I'll  let  that  go  hang.  I  have  only  to  move 
to  another  city.  [Elis  is  silent. ']  You  had 
a  friend  who  is  called  Peter.  He  is  a  debater 
and  was  your  student  in  oratory.  But  you 
wanted  him  to  be  a  sort  of  prophet.  —  Well, 
he  was  faithless.    He  crowed  twice,  didn't  he? 

[Elis  is  silent,'\ 


68  STRINDBERG 

MNDKvisT.  Human  nature  is  as  uncertain  as 
things  and  thought.  Peter  was  faithless  —  I 
don't  deny  it,  and  I  won't  defend  him  —  in 
that.  But  the  heart  of  mankind  is  fathom- 
less, and  there  is  always  some  gold  to  be 
found.  Peter  was  a  faithless  friend,  but  a 
friend  nevertheless. 

ELis.  A  faithless  — 

LiNDKViST.  Faithless  —  yes,  but  a  friend,  as  I 
said.  This  faithless  friend  has  unwittingly 
done  you  a  great  service. 

ELis   [Sneeringly^.    Even  that. 

LiNDKvisT  [^Moving  nearer  to  Elis'\.  As  ye 
sow,  so  shall  ye  reap ! 

ELis.  It's  not  true  of  evil. 

LiNDKviST.  It's  true  of  everything  in  life.  Do 
you  believe  me.^^ 

ELis.  I  must,  or  else  you  will  torture  the  life 
out  of  me. 

LINDKVIST.  Not  your  life  —  but  pride  and  mal- 
ice I  will  squeeze  out  of  you. 

ELIS.  But  to  continue  — 

LINDKVIST.  Peter  has  done  you  a  service,  I  said. 

ELIS.  I  want  no  services  from  him  — 

LINDKVIST.  Are  you  there  again  ?  Then  listen ! 
Thro'  your  friend  Peter's  intervention  the 
Governor  was  able  to  protect  your  mother. 
Therefore  you  must  write  and  thank  Peter. 
Promise  me  that. 

ELIS.  Any  other  man  in  the  world  —  but  not 
him. 

LINDKVIST   [Nearer    to    Elisl.      Then    I    must 


EASTER  69 

squeeze  you  again.     How  much  money  have 
you  in  the  bank? 

ELis.  What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?  I  can- 
not be  responsible  for  my  father's  debts! 

LiNDKViST.  Oh,  indeed?  Weren't  you  among 
those  who  ate,  and  drank,  when  my  children's 
money  was  spent  in  this  house?     Answer. 

ELis.  I  can't  deny  it. 

LiNDKVisT.  Well,  then,  you  must  sit  down  im- 
mediately and  write  a  check  for  the  balance. 
You  know  the  sum. 

ELIS   \_As  in  a  dream].    Even  that? 

LINDKVIST.  Yes,  even  that.  —  Be  good  enough 
to  make  it  out  now. 

[Elis  rises  and  takes  out  check-hook  and 
pen.] 

LINDKVIST.  Make  it  on  yourself  or  an  order  — 

ELIS.  Even  then  it  won't  be  enough. 

LINDKVIST.  Then  you  must  go  out  and  borrow 
the  rest.     Every  penny  must  be  paid. 

ELIS  {^Handing  check  to  Lindkvist] .  There  — 
everything  I  have.  —  That  is  my  summer  and 
my  bride.  I  haven't  anything  else  to  give 
you. 

LINDKVIST.  Then  you  must  go  out  and  borrow, 
as  I  said. 

ELIS.   I  can't  do  it. 

LINDKVIST.  Then  you  must  get  security. 

ELIS.   No  one  would  give  security  to  a  Heyst. 

LINDKVIST.  So.  Then  I'll  propose  an  alterna- 
tive. Thank  Peter,  or  you  will  have  to  come 
up  with  the  whole  sum. 


70  STRINDBERG 

ELis.  I  won't  have  anything  to  do  with  Peter. 

LiNDKvisT.  Then  you  are  the  most  miserable 
creature  that  I  have  ever  known.  You  can 
by  a  simple  courtesy  save  your  mother's 
dwelling  and  your  fiancee's  happiness,  and 
you  won't  do  it.  There  must  be  some  motive 
that  you  won't  come  out  with.  Why  do  you 
hate  Peter.? 

Eus.  Put  me  to  death  —  but  don't  torture  me 
any  longer. 

UNDKvisT.  Are  you  jealous  of  him.? 

\_Elis  shrugs  his  shoulders.^ 

UNDKVIST.  So  —  that's  the  way  things  stand. 
\^Rises  and  walks  up  and  dozem.^  Did  you 
read  the  evening  paper.? 

ELIS.  Yes,  more  is  the  pity! 

LINDKVIST.   All  of  it.? 

ELIS.  No,  not  all. 

LiNDKVisT.  No.?  Then  you  didn't  read  of 
Peter's  engagement.? 

ELIS.  No.     That  I  did  not  knov/  about. 

LiNDKvisT.  And  to  whom  do  you  think.? 

ELIS.  To  whom.? 

LINDKVIST.  Why,  he  is  engaged  to  Miss  Alice, 
and  it  was  made  known  at  a  certain  recital, 
where  your  fiancee  helped  spread  the  glad 
news. 

ELIS.  Why  should  it  have  been  such  a  secret? 

LINDKVIST.  Haven't  two  young  people  the  right 
to  keep  their  hearts'  secrets  from  you? 

ELIS.  And  on  account  of  their  happiness  I  had 
to  suffer  this  agony ! 


EASTER  71 

LiNDKViST.  Yes,  just  as  others  have  suffered  for 
your  happiness  —  your  mother,  your  father, 
your  fiancee,  your  sister,  your  friends.  Sit 
down  and  I'll  tell  you  a  little  story. 

\_Elis  sits,  against  his  will,  through  this 
scene  and  the  following.  It  is  clearing  out- 
side.'\ 

LINDKVIST.  It's  about  forty  years  since  I  came 
to  this  town,  as  a  boy,  you  understand  — 
alone,  unknown,  without  even  one  acquaint- 
ance, to  seek  a  position.  All  I  owned  was  one 
silver  dollar.  The  night  that  I  arrived  was 
a  dark,  rainy  one.  As  I  didn't  know  of  any 
cheap  hotel,  I  asked  the  passers-by  about  one, 
but  no  one  stopped  to  answer.  Took  me  for 
a  beggar,  most  likely.  When  I  was  at  the 
height  of  my  despair,  a  young  man  came  up 
and  asked  me  why  I  was  crying  —  evidently 
I  was  crying.  —  I  told  him  my  need,  and 
he  turned  from  his  course  and  took  me  to 
a  hotel,  and  comforted  me  with  friendly 
words.  As  I  entered  the  hotel  the  glass  door 
of  a  store  next  door  was  thrown  open  and  hit 
my  elbow  and  was  smashed  to  pieces.  The 
furious  owner  of  the  store  grabbed  me  and 
insisted  that  I  should  pay  for  it,  or  else  he 
would  call  the  police.  Can  you  imagine  my 
despair  .^^  The  kindly-intentioned  unknown 
man,  who  was  a  witness  of  the  affair,  pro- 
tested, and  went  to  the  trouble  of  calling  the 
police  himself,  explained,  and  saved  me  from 
a  night  in  the  street.     This  man  was  your 


72  STRINDBERG 

father !     So  jou  see,  "  As  ye  sow,  so  shall  ye 
reap."     And  for  your  father's  sake,  I  have 
foregone  what  is  owed  me.     Therefore  take 
this  paper  and  keep  your   check.      \_Rises.~\ 
And  as  you  find  it  hard  to  say  thanks,  I'll  go 
immediately,  and  especially  as  I  find  it  pain- 
ful to  be  thanked.     ^Goes  to  door  back.'\     Go 
to  your  mother  as  soon  as  your  feet  can  carry 
you   and   relieve   her   of  her  worries.      \_Elis 
starts  to  Lindkvist  to  thank  him,  hut  Lindk- 
mst  makes  a  gesture  toward  i?.]     Go  — 
[Elis   hastens    out   R.      The   center    door 
opens  and  Eleonora  and  Benjamin  enter. 
On   seeing    Lindkvist,    she    shows    extreme 
fear.  ] 

LINDKVIST.  Well,  little  ones,  step  in  and  have  no 
fear.  Do  you  know  who  I  am.-^  [In  a  blus- 
tering voice. ^  I  am  the  giant  of  the  moun- 
tains, —  muh,  muh,  muh !  —  and  yet  I  am  not 
dangerous.  Come  here,  Eleonora.  [She 
goes  to  him  and  he  takes  her  head  in  his  hand 
and  looks  into  her  eyes.']  You  have  your 
father's  kind  eyes,  —  he  was  a  good  man  — 
but  he  was  weak.  [Kissing  her  forehead.] 
There. 

ELEONORA.  You  speak  well  of  my  father?  Can 
it  be  any  one  wishes  him  well.'' 

LINDKVIST.   I  can  —  ask  your  brother  Elis. 

ELEONORA.  Then  you  don't  want  to  harm  us.'' 

LINDKVIST.   No,  my  dear  child. 

ELEONORA.  Well,  help  us  then. 

LINDKVIST.   Child,  I  can't  help  your  father  in 


EASTER  73 

his  sentence.     I  can't  help  Benjamin  in  his 

Latin.     But  everything  else  is  helped  already. 

Life  doesn't  give  everything,  and  nothing  is 

given  for  nothing.     Therefore  you  must  help 

me,  —  will  you  ? 
ELEONORA.  Poor  me,  what  can  I  do.? 
liiNDKViST.  What  is  the  date  today.? 
ELEONORA.  Why,  it's  the  sixteenth. 
LiNDKViST.   Good.      Before    the    twentieth    you 

must  have  your  brother  Elis  make  a  call  on 

the  Governor,  and  you  must  get  hira  to  write 

a  letter  to  Peter. 
ELEONORA.  Is  that  all.? 
LiNDKViST.   Oh,    you    dear    child!      But    if    he 

neglects    these    things    the    giant    will    come 

again  and  say  muh,  muh ! 
ELEONORA.  Why    should    the    giant    come    and 

scare  children.? 
LiNDKViST.   So  that  the  children  will  be  good. 
ELEONORA.  That's    true.      The   giant   is    right. 

\_She  kisses  Lindkvisfs  coat  sleeve.^     Thanks, 

dear  giant. 
LiNDKViST.  You  should  Say  Mr.  Giant,  I  should 

think. 
ELEONORA.   Oh,     no.       That's    not    your     real 

name  — 
LINDKVIST   \_Laughing'].       Good-bye,     children. 

Now  you  can  throw  the  rod  in  the  fire. 
ELEONORA.  No,  wc  must  keep  it.     Children  are 

SO  forgetful. 
LINDKVIST.  How  wcll  you  know  children,  little 

one!  \^He  goes  out.l 


74  STRINDBERG 

ELEONORA.  We  are  going  to  the  country,  Ben- 
jamin. Within  two  months!  Oh,  if  the  time 
would  only  pass  quickly.  \^She  takes  calen- 
dar and  tears  the  pages  off  one  by  one.^ 
April,  May,  June,  and  the  sun  is  shining  on 
them  all.  Now  you  must  thank  God,  who 
helped  us  to  the  country. 
BENJAMIN    IBashfullyl.    Can't  I  say  my  thanks 

in  silence  .^^ 
ELEONORA.  Ycs,  you  cau  say  it  in  silence,  for 
now  the  clouds  are  gone,  and  it  can  be  heard 
up  there. 

J^CJiristine  has  entered  from  L.  and  stopped, 
El'is  and  Mrs.  Heyst  from  R.  Chris tme 
and  Elis  start  to  meet  each  other  with  lov- 
ing smiles.    Before  they  meet  — ] 


Cttetain. 


// 


U.C.  mM.\.V<  UBR^WES 

1 


C00M55ab27 


